The Last High King
by NokuMarieDeux
Summary: Loyalties are divided and the foundation of friendship fractured when an enigmatic stranger comes between Jess Harper and Slim Sherman.
1. Chapter 1

**THE LAST HIGH KING**

_**"****Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision  
**__**for the limits of the world."**__ • __Arthur Schopenhauer_

_**It's me again, Nonie Sherman aka 'Gracie'… **__As always, the warp an' woof of today's tale is based on a conglomeration of accounts as set down by my great-granddaddies, Slim Sherman an' Jess Harper (an' assorted other relations). Ain't sayin' they might not of fudged a little in the tellin', but why would they? After all, the point of all that journal writin' was to provide an accurate record of their daily lives for future generations… _'accurate'_ bein' the pivotal word here. Throughout their (almost) lifelong association, Slim an' Jess definitely held opposin' opinions on just about any subject you'd care to name. Most times they was able to work things out through discussion an' compromise. Sometimes they just took to arguin' 'til one of 'em wore down the other one. But every now an' then some situation arose what come dangerously close to permanently severin' their relationship… an' this was one of 'em._

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_Chapter 1:_** PROLOGUE**

_**"****You never run out of things that can go wrong."**__ • __Edward R. Murphy_

_**Six days earlier…**_

Jess Harper had journeyed to Cheyenne to collect a dozen Herefords—a breed not yet widely known on the high plains but being imported, bred and marketed by the Canby Cattle Company to far-seeing serious stockmen as the future of beef cattle production. Some years back the Sherman Ranch had acquired, as a gift from an anonymous benefactor, a majestic Canby-bred pedigreed Hereford bull—Sir Percival Goodknight. In just his first season with the modest herd of range cows, Percy had sired calves of dramatically improved quality. As two-year-olds they'd commanded top dollar at this year's sales in Laramie.

Now a full partner in the ranch, Jess collaborated with Slim Sherman on management decisions, generally (though not always) in agreement. It was at the instigation of the third partner, Slim's younger brother Andy, that they'd decided it was time to invest in purebred breeding stock. Majoring in veterinary science at university in St. Louis, Andrew Sherman was also amassing a considerable volume of knowledge in modern ranching methods, which he eagerly passed along in voluminous correspondence and in conversation whenever visiting during term breaks. The two older partners, at first dubious of some of these newfangled ideas, were beginning to see the light and accept the advantages of scientific approaches contrary to traditional practices.

By mail, Slim had negotiated the acquisition of a dozen registered Hereford heifers—with the proviso of buyer's on-site choice. Armed with guidelines determined by Slim and Andy, Jess made his selections judiciously. With the assistance of a Canby hand, he shepherded them at a leisurely pace to the railhead in Cheyenne, only to be advised by the scheduling agent that a stock car wouldn't be available until the following afternoon. Annoying, but not an insurmountable problem.

Before making accommodations for his charges, Jess wired Slim that he and his precious cargo would be arriving on the Tuesday afternoon westbound train. The telegram would be delivered to Slim via stagecoach driver Mose Shell when that worthy stopped at the ranch/relay station to change out teams on his morning westbound run. Accordingly, that afternoon, Slim would be on hand to meet Jess at the Laramie rail depot to assist in offloading and driving their little band of future herd mothers the twelve miles from town to the ranch.

Instructed to accompany the customer until the animals were safely loaded into a stock car, the Canby man was pleased to accept a privately-offered double eagle in return for feeding and watering them and mounting an overnight guard against predators, both bipedal and quadruped. At said customer's request, he took his supper break first. Upon his return, Jess went off in search of his own meal at the small hotel where he'd been staying close by the depot.

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_**TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1st…**_

After demolishing a hearty breakfast, Jess returned to the yards where empty stock cars had already been shunted off to the siding paralleling the pens. The Canby fellow ascended the ramp to slide open the door at the top of the lead car, then helped Jess herd the heifers up and into their conveyance. At that point the assistant took his leave, thanking Mister Harper for his twenty-dollar bonus and wishing him a pleasant trip and bountiful future with his four-legged acquisitions.

As the distance to their destination and time enroute were both relatively short—fifty miles and two hours if no obstructions on the rails, Jess elected to stay with the cattle rather than in a passenger car. These youngsters were understandably a little confused and skittery at this disturbance in their environment—in all their short lives they'd never been off thickly grassed pasturage surrounded by stout fencing. Being herded ten miles from their home had been stressful enough. They'd lowed miserably every step of the way.

The heifers were used to daily interaction with handlers who fed them and kept their water troughs filled, so Jess reckoned his presence was reassuring as he weaseled among them, stroking polls and scratching behind ears. They soon settled. Averaging five hundred and fifty pounds apiece, the youngsters were still small enough that all twelve could lie down comfortably in the bedding straw he'd asked be provided. The day was balmy and fresh air flowing through the louvered side panels ensured none of them would suffer heat stroke.

In good time the stock cars were integrated into the line of rolling stock on the main track, between the baggage car and the caboose. The heifers evinced only mild interest at the unfamiliar movement beneath them. A few stood up to investigate but quickly returned to their recumbent positions. Their human overseer had made himself a nest of straw in one corner and was softly crooning to them.

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_**Two hours later…**_

The Plainsman Zephyr chugged into Laramie right on schedule, smoothly rumbling to a halt alongside the platform. While debarking and embarking passengers and harried porters milled around getting in one another's way, yardmen uncoupled the stock cars and diverted them via mule engine to the stock pen siding. Peering through the slots in the side panels, Jess chafed at the delay in getting his own delivery unloaded. The pens were full up with outgoing cattle—one would have to be emptied in order to open up an enclosure for his. Surely Slim would've had a word with the stationmaster about expediting the transfer of their expensive investment, but Slim was nowhere in sight.

It was then Jess experienced a prickle of foreboding. Up until now all had gone according to plan…

An hour went by without Jess catching so much as a glimpse of his partner. A pen opened up and the mule engine eased his car into position alongside the ramp. A yardman scrambled up to unlock the heavy door and slide it aside. Having already identified the bossiest of the heifers, Jess designated her as 'bell cow' and bedecked her with the neck collar and brass bell he'd obtained for the purpose. He maneuvered her through her sisters to the head of the ramp and convinced her to descend, whereupon the other eleven followed docilely.

With all his girls on solid ground and the gate to the ramp swung shut, Jess climbed up onto a top rail for a look around. Still no Slim to be seen. What he did see, waving a hand for his attention, was the somber brown face belonging to Orville Jackson, journeyman blacksmith under his father Avery at Jackson's Livery & Blacksmith Shop. The Jackson family had close personal ties to the Sherman family and thus to Jess. Orrie was mounted on an enormous sooty black gelding and leading an identical animal under saddle. Jess recognized them as belonging to Doctor Fred Whatleigh (otherwise known as 'Young Doc') and sometime boarders at the livery. The Whatleighs were also close family friends.

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_**Worrying news…**_

"Hey Orrie. What's goin' on? Jess queried as the young man came within conversational distance. "Where's Slim? Didn't he get my telegram?"

"Yes and no," Orrie replied enigmatically. "Mister Slim's not home. Miss Daisy sent a message back with Mose to my father, asking if one of us could meet you and help you get these cows back to the ranch."

"Not home?" Jess repeated. "Where'd he go?"

"I'll tell what I know—which isn't much—on the way. We'd best get your critters on the road if you intend to get 'em home before four o'clock." He looked on curiously as Jess fashioned a halter out of a length of rope and slipped it on the animal with the belled collar.

"These little ladies ain't used to bein' drove. They came up learnin' to follow the bell," Jess explained. "All I gotta do is lead this 'un an' the rest'll come along like they was roped together."

Unfastening the gate, Jess slipped through to approach the horse Orrie had provided for his use and stopped short. The mare wasn't one of the livery stock but a privately-owned animal he knew quite well as she belonged to his friend, Doctor Whatleigh.

"Young Doc says for you to go on and ride her," Orrie offered at Jess' questioning glance. "She needs the exercise and he hasn't got the time right now."

Jess held out his hand and let the mare snuffle at it, refreshing her memory that this was a human she'd carried before and trusted to be kind and gentle. She stood quietly as he fastened his Gladstone bag to the horn. Orrie turned his head, pretending to examine something in the distance rather then embarrass Jess by watching him fumbling to mount the Thoroughbred-Percheron cross. At seventeen-plus hands, Tar Baby was much taller than Jess's usual ride. His skip-hop mounting method wouldn't work here unless he got a running start. Nevertheless, he managed to clamber aboard. Nudging the gate the rest of the way open, Jess tugged the lead rope until Belle (as he'd unimaginatively named her) understood she was meant to move forward. Her eleven acolytes clustered close behind her, noses to tails.

There was only one route from the rail depot to the bridge spanning the Laramie River and the stage road rolling eastward toward the ranch. With Orrie riding drag (unnecessarily because the heifers remained tightly grouped), Jess proceeded down the middle of Main Street, occasioning a few dirty looks and some appreciative whistles. Whether at the brightly colored heifers or the mind-boggling stature of the immense horses, he couldn't tell. Permanent residents of the area were already acquainted with Young Doc's outsize riding animals.

Once they'd crossed the bridge, Orrie was able to ride forward where he could talk with Jess. First and foremost a horseman, the blacksmith didn't know that much about cattle. However, he recognized quality when he saw it and commented admiringly on the little white-faced cows with their gleaming red summer coats.

"You've sure got some money on the hoof there. Don't expect you'll be ranging them out."

"You got that right!" Jess grinned back with pride. "These girls are going into fenced pastures and staying there." He went on to extol the virtues (as he understood them) of the Hereford breed and what he and Slim hoped to accomplish in the next few years. They'd cleared the town proper before Jess brought up his original concern.

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_**The missing partner…**_

"What was it you was gonna tell me about Slim bein' gone?"

"In the note Mose brought from Miss Daisy, all it said was there'd been trouble and Mister Slim had to leave immediately, so could one of us meet you at the train. Pa and the sheriff rode out there right away, of course, worried about her being on her own. They stopped by Bartlett's spread on the way but Miss Daisy'd already driven over there herself to borrow two hands to help out with chores and handle the relays."

Jess pulled up so abruptly that the trailing heifers bumped into each other, bawling in surprise. "What kinda trouble? Is everyone all right?"

Orrie indicated they should keep moving. "No one's hurt. Apparently a rustler made off with your brood mares and Mister Slim decided to go after them before the trail got too cold."

"When was this?"

"Four or five days ago, I believe. Anyway, she's got Tommy Bartlett and another boy holding the fort so there's no need to move these cows any faster than necessary. They don't look like they're much used to traveling."

In spite of his impatience, Jess knew Orrie was right. All the care he'd so far lavished on the heifers and getting them home in prime condition would be wasted effort if he pushed too hard now. Tommy had grown up with Slim's younger brother Andy and had often helped out over the years, so he was familiar with the routines of caring for their livestock and changing out stagecoach teams.

_The ranch is bein' looked after. Relay services're under control. Daisy an' Mike ain't in any distress or danger. No use in worrying myself into a tizzy 'til I actually got somethin' to worry about. Slim's a grown man who can take care a himself. Still…_

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_**Dusk…**_

Jess and Orrie led twelve very tired, hungry and thirsty heifers through the gate into the back pasture populated during the day by the Hereford bull and their crabby Jersey milk cow. At night Percy and Deecy were shut up in a byre at the rear of the main barn.

Tommy and the other boy, Ken, had already barrowed out hay and topped off the water trough in anticipation of their arrival. They'd already arranged between them to take shifts keeping an eye on the newcomers for the first forty-eight hours until they got over any residual anxiety about their new home. Tomorrow there would also be the matter of monitoring Percy's and Deecy's reaction to the interlopers in _their_ private pasture. Jess expressed his gratitude—he was dead tired and had planned on staying up all night himself. Now he didn't have to. But what he _did_ have to do was find out exactly what had transpired in his absence.

Coffee and a hot meal awaited him and Orrie as soon as they entered the house. Daisy and the Bartlett boys had eaten earlier, so she was free to sit at the table with her own coffee. With ill-concealed worry on her elfin face, she described what had happened, how during the night someone had entered the broodmares' enclosure—out of sight behind the house—and made off with four horses. The theft had been discovered when Slim went out to feed the next morning. The two with foals at heel had been left behind.

"I begged him to wait until you got back," Daisy said, "or at least get someone to go with… but you know Slim."

Jess nodded over his bowl of chicken and dumplings. _Yeah… I do. An' I woulda done the same…_

Daisy was much more than just the house_keeper_. In her years of residence she'd come to serve as house_mother_ to her 'boys'—Slim, Jess, their adoptee Mike and Andy when he was home.

"You've got to go after him, Jess," Daisy entreated. "Something's happened to him… I know it has. He could be lying out there somewhere, hurt and helpless." She had a habit of knotting her hands in her apron when she was anxious—the abused garment was a tangle of wrinkled cotton. Unshed tears glistened in her cornflower eyes.

Though logic and experience suggested that a four-day-old trail might prove difficult to follow, Jess determined he'd light out first thing in the morning. Daisy said it hadn't rained that week and that was something.

That night, as Orrie slumbered in the adjacent bed, Jess lay awake, consumed with equal parts exasperation and foreboding._ Couldn't Slim of waited 'til I got back? Together we woulda made short work a tracking an' catchin' that rustler… but noooooo! He ain't called Hardrock for nothin'!_

As Jess finally drifted off he wondered if this might be the work of the organized gang of horse thieves they'd had trouble with before. The leader and three others had been apprehended and—hopefully—rehabilitated, but five others had escaped—including the second in command, a part-Romany gypsy called Elliot, and a wily half-breed Sauk Indian named Coyote. Jess reminded himself to write a note to Sheriff Mort Corey and have Orrie deliver it when he returned to town in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2:_** THE NOT-INDIAN**

"_**First impressions are always unreliable."**__ • __Franz Kafka_

_**WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2nd…**_

Tom Bartlett allowed as how his daddy wouldn't mind if he and Ken stayed on as long as was needed.

"Thanks, Tom. Tell your pa when you see 'im we really appreciate the help. Pro'bly nothin' to worry about but… you know women. They get all excitable when their menfolk ain't home when they oughta be."

Tom nodded sagely. He wasn't old enough to have acquired _that_ kind of experience… but he was well used to his ma getting all wound up whenever he or his brothers were late for dinner. _Excitable_ didn't begin to cover it.

Directly after breakfast, Orrie headed back to town with Tar Baby on a lead and Jess stalked over to the scene of the crime.

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_**Jess investigates…**_

The horses left behind pricked their ears at Jess' arrival but immediately fell back to grazing as he wasn't carrying a feed bucket or anything else of interest. He leaned against the gate, studying the ground on either side. Inside the barrier, bits of discarded carrots and apples told how the thief had got the animals to come to him. Bootprints in the earth indicated he'd walked among them, presumably at a leisurely pace so as not to unduly disturb them while installing halters and attaching leads. He would have relatched the gate afterwards to prevent the mares with foals from following.

Amid the muddle of prints outside the fence, Jess was able to distinguish between those of the thief's shod mount and the four barefoot mares, overlain by the fresher prints of Slim's horse. From the tracks leading toward the woods Jess deduced that the thief was aiming to circle around the bluff abutting the ranch compound before heading northwards. He returned to the barn to saddle Traveller before going to the house to collect his gear. Securing everything he needed for several days on the trail, he was just about to mount up when Daisy sailed out from the house with two bulging gunnysacks.

"What's all this?"

"Provisions… a little of this and that so you won't have to waste any time hunting."

"I really don't…" _…want to put any more weight on this horse than necessary…_

"Take it. There's a medical kit in there… and some medicinal brandy."

As it turned out, Daisy's thoughtful contributions came in handy.

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_**Following the trail…**_

The tracks—no longer all that fresh after four days but undisturbed by weather—were still as easy to read as a newspaper. The trail led east-northeast, then circled west to cross over the stage road. The thief appeared to be heading toward the Vedauwoo wilderness, beginning some six miles beyond the eastern perimeter of the Sherman spread, where wide stretches of shale would make tracking almost impossible. Travel time would be sharply reduced. Something that rustlers often failed to consider, however, was that horses left signs of their passing other than hoofprints. Whenever Jess temporarily lost the track, a brief recce would pick it up again.

Many hours later Jess found a cold camp left by the thief but nothing indicating Slim had overnighted there as well. Not good. If Slim had pushed on without any sleep he wouldn't have been as alert as he needed to be in order to confront an armed individual.

Once past the skull rocks and into the more verdant backcountry, the tracks once again became more visible and orderly but no fresher than what Jess had started with, which meant he was just keeping pace and not gaining on his quarry. At twilight he made camp in a birch grove on the verge of a grassy meadow, estimating he'd made less than thirty miles. Securing Traveller with a lead long enough to allow adequate grazing, he fueled himself with beans and jerky and curled up as close as he could to a tiny fire. A few hours of fitful sleep and a breakfast of coffee and cold biscuits with ham were enough to see him back on the hunt at dawn.

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_**THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3rd…**_

Entering a high mountain meadow around noon, Jess came upon a seasonal catchpond bearing evidence of a violent encounter: grass trampled into mud and a section of bank churned into a morass, suggesting that one or more horses had struggled to free themselves. Dismounting, he began circumnavigating the pond counter-clockwise, trying to fathom what had occurred. Scene after scene unfolded like pages in a book. Here and there he was able to distinguish two sets of boot prints—one of them definitely Slim's, as he'd just had his favorite pair resoled and the heel print was still crisp. The presumed horse thief had a slightly smaller foot.

Continuing on, Jess spotted where the mares had been reassembled—evidently roped together in tandem, judging by the single-file tracks—and hustled off. And then he found where Alamo—Slim's horse—had lit out in a different direction, unridden. Slim was solidly built—and big. His weight made a considerable difference in the depth of a horse's hoofprints. So where was he?

As Jess had already gone three-fourths of the way around the pond, he figured he'd complete the circle to get back to Traveller rather than retrace his steps. His decision was rewarded when he came across another set of prints—Alamo's again, returning to the scene, plus a fifth unshod horse.

These tracks stopped short of where Jess had begun his examination, which is why he'd initially missed them. As he focused his attention on the new evidence, other clues began to manifest themselves. Another pair of feet had left impressions—soft, not as defined as a boot or a shoe. Moccasins? There hadn't been many off-reservation Indians in these parts in many a moon. Coyote had worn mocs, hadn't he? Was the Sauk back in business, determined to finish what the now attenuated crew of rustlers had failed to accomplish on the night of their ill-fated raid on the Sherman establishment?

Something large, wet and mud-caked had been dragged from the pond over the grass to the spot where Jess was standing. A body, then loaded onto a horse, as the tracks of both animals led away from the scene? Alamo's prints were much deeper than they ought to have been for a horse carrying only one rider. The unshod horse which initially _had_ been carrying a rider was now riderless.

Jess was momentarily stymied… follow the stolen stock, or his best friend and partner's horse now carrying double? No contest there. Slim came first—always. He mounted up, reasoning that if Slim were dead his body would have been stripped of valuables and left behind. If, however, he were only incapacitated, it was possible that Moccasin Foot had decided to carry him elsewhere for some nefarious purpose—perhaps to use as a hostage in return for government concessions. These days almost all Indians were contained on reservations but there were always those few fringe bands and solitary bucks who continued resisting white encroachment on their lands. Jess couldn't blame them for their resentment, but at the same time his primary concern was getting Slim Sherman back in one piece.

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_**Late afternoon…**_

The trail wound upward toward the maze of small canyons and interlocking valleys hidden among jumbled boulders, interspersed with tracts of forest. This area had long been a favored refuge for those wanting to keep a low profile from society and particularly from the law. With an abundance of wildlife, it also offered prime hunting for the Shermans and neighboring ranchers seeking to restock their game larders. Jess didn't know all the canyons intimately but he had a fairly good notion of the one they he should be heading for. It had all the necessary features for a long-term camp: plentiful grass, potable water, wood for cookfires, and shelter from the elements in the form of caves and overhangs. A single hidden entrance—through a narrow aperture in a rock face—made it difficult to locate… and easy to defend.

The trail led straight to it, but Jess reasoned if he advanced directly toward that natural opening, he'd forfeit the advantage of surprise. There might be more than one defender… or there might be an outside guard posted. Tethering Traveller a hundred yards back and downwind, Jess removed his hat and spurs and pulled out his rifle. Careful not to disclose his presence by dislodging any rocks, he climbed to the rim and belly-crawled to a vantage point overlooking a rubbled slope. Wiggling into concealment under a clump of laurel, he had an unobstructed view to the floor of the basin and a small oval lake occupying its center.

Alder saplings sparsely dotting the grassy verges of the lake didn't obscure the Indian squatting in a shady spot near the water. Nearby grazed a small mule and two horses—a leopard-spot Appaloosa and a rangy chestnut Jess knew only too well. Trouble was, its owner was nowhere in sight. Jess brought his rifle to bear on his quarry and sighted in. Easy pickings… but first he considered his alternatives: shoot with intent to disable… or shoot to kill. Or announce his presence and trust the man would be intimidated enough to stand fast while Jess made his descent. The longer Jess thought about it, the more aware he became that what he was seeing wasn't quite what it seemed at first impression…

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_**If it looks like an Indian, then it must be one…**_

A lone Indian this far away from any reservation must be a renegade—therefore, a candidate for immediate elimination, just like a coyote or any other varmint. Though that action would've been within the law, Jess couldn't bring himself to kill a man in cold blood… and a dead man couldn't lead him to Slim. A few more minutes of study wouldn't make a difference. And anyway, there was something out of whack with this picture.

Moccasin Foot stood up to wring out a wad of cloth and flap it around. Moving out of the shadows, he spread a blue shirt over a bush next to other items drying there. Slim's? Jess had no way of knowing what Slim had been wearing when he left the ranch and chambray work shirts certainly weren't unique—he and Slim both owned several and they were commonly available at reservation trading posts. But what would an Indian be doing with a white man's longjohns, trousers and socks?

An Indian male would eat dirt and worms before doing laundry—that was women's work. The answer to that came with a shaft of late afternoon sunlight gleaming off Moccasin Foot's mane of copper hair reaching past his shoulders. This individual was no Indian despite his native garb: high-top fringed moccasins, buckskin leggings, an Apache-style headband and a blousy, collarless, faded blue shirt, unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

Jess tore his scrutiny away from the not-Indian to examine his surroundings. A cooking pot dangled from an iron tripod over a rock-encircled firepit. On a nearby rock slab rested an assortment of what appeared to be utensils and a canvas sack probably containing supplies. Several gutted rabbit-sized carcasses were suspended from a limb. What bothered Jess was what he _couldn't_ see: a sleeping pallet or a saddle or weapons… or Slim.

Moccasin Foot wasn't wearing a gunbelt, but surely he'd at least have a rifle close to hand. Jess continued watching as the man puttered around some more—adding fuel to the fire, filling the coffee pot from the lake and using the water to slosh off a portion of the slab, refilling the coffee pot and setting it aside. Lastly, laying a carcass on the slab, he stepped away and turned to face upslope in Jess's direction. He held his hands loosely at his sides, palms turned outwards to show he was unarmed.

"Might as well come on down. I'm about to start supper."


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3:_** UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL**

_**"****Suspicion ain't proof."**__ • __Ken Alstad _

_**A meeting of adversaries…**_

Utterly confounded, Jess slid out from under the bush and rolled up to a sitting position while keeping his rifle aimed. He'd been _so_ positive he hadn't been spotted, had been _so_ careful to not move a muscle. The slope here was too steep to walk down without risking a misstep and a tumble to the bottom, so he had no recourse but to descend inelegantly by sliding down on his ass.

Moccasin Foot remained motionless, waiting for the man with the rifle to come to him. When Jess finally arrived at a place where he could stand up, the other folded his arms over his chest and nodded at the weapon.

"You won't be needing that, Sunshine."

"I'll be the judge a that. An' the name's Harper… Jess Harper. Who're you?"

"You can call me Ruairí."

"What kinda name's that?"

"Gaelic."

_Garlic?_ "Roo-airy what?" Which was as close as Jess could come to that alien tongue-tangler.

"Conor… but I answer to Ruairí."

"Whaddya doin' here?"

The other shrugged, not breaking eye contact. "Well, I _was_ about to make a pot of coffee and fricassee some rabbit, if you're interested."

"You know what I mean…" Jess glared. "You got a smart mouth, mister."

"And you're rude," the redhead shot back. "But I won't hold it against you."

"Answer the question or I'll drop you right where you stand."

"But we've only just met," the man protested mildly. "Why would you want to do that?"

"For one thing, that chestnut over there. He ain't yours. Where'd you get 'im?"

"You're right. He's not. I'm minding him for someone."

"That's _my_ horse. I been trackin' 'im since yesterday. You better come up with some answers right quick or so help me…"

"Don't get your tailfeathers in a twist. You'll get your answers, but not if you shoot me. So put that gun aside and let me get the coffee going. Okay if I call you 'Jess'?"

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_**Jess considers…**_

The not-Indian put up both hands in a gesture of supplication and slowly retreated, leaving his captor near hyperventilating in frustration. Was the man supremely arrogant or just a fearless idiot? He wasn't very tall—several inches shorter than Jess, and moved with an economy of effort as he returned to his stated task. Abandoned at the foot of the slope, weapon in hand, Jess was beginning to feel slightly foolish.

If this odd individual were merely a quart shy of a full bucket, perhaps an approach other than threatened mayhem would better serve the situation. While Jess ruminated on his next course of action, he also considered and dismissed the notion that he might be dealing with a half-breed. Most of them inherited the coloring and chiseled features of the non-white parent, but this man's irises were a smoky topaz rather than brown-black. The visible skin of his face, chest and forearms was a tawny shade not usually seen on redheads—most gingers possessed freckled, buttermilk-pale hides that burned rather than tanned. What had looked from a distance to be buckskin leggings were ordinary tan twill trousers, faded and worn to a suede-like sheen. The rest, however, was authentic.

Jess wondered if his new acquaintance might not be one of those eccentric high-country solitaries he'd encountered during his time on the drift in the Big Open. Invariably those had been unwashed, grizzled old geezers with rotted teeth, matted beards and unkempt, uncut hair. _This man don't fit the profile… yet. But hermits gotta start somewhere—they don't just happen overnight._

Ruairí added ground coffee to the pot and set it on the coals. Next, he unwrapped a chunk of bacon, slicing enough to layer the bottom of the skillet. A tantalizing spicy aroma wafted in Jess's direction from whatever was already bubbling in the pot, causing his innards to rumble in anticipation of a hot meal. Although loathe to admit it, the former gunfighter had succumbed to domestication by assimilation after throwing in with the Sherman crew. Amazing how soft feather ticking and three squares a day sucked the wanderlust right out of a fellow. While Jess hadn't relaxed his grip on the rifle, his feet involuntarily propelled him forward.

"Watercress, wild onions, juniper berries, camas root and fatback," Ruairí announced, apropos of nothing. Taking down the first carcass, he deftly subdivided it into skillet-size pieces, using a mat of green leaves as a cutting surface. The other two followed in short order.

"Didn't ask what was in it," Jess growled, flummoxed because he'd been about to do that very thing.

"No… but you were gonna." With the choice cuts arranged in the skillet and beginning to sizzle, Ruairí cubed the remaining meat and scooped it into the cookpot. "How about stirring the pot while…"

"I ain't your little mary," Jess mumbled impolitely but did it anyway.

"… I mix up some dumplings," the redhead continued, unperturbed.

"An' this ain't no tea party." _What's the matter with this joker? He got some kinda death wish or somethin'? Or just plain damn back'ards?_ "For the last time," Jess growled, again hoisting his rifle, "where'd you get that horse an' where's the man was on 'im?"

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_**An unanticipated reaction…**_

The chestnut gelding chose that moment to raise his head from the grass and whicker greetings to the human whose voice and scent he recognized. In that split second of distraction, Jess found himself body-slammed to the ground, the rifle knocked from his hand and his pistol wrenched from its holster. With a knee on his chest and a buck knife pricking at the hollow of his throat, he recognized the inadvisability of fighting back, cataloging the last human features he might ever see if he didn't remain absolutely still. A mass of wavy auburn hair framed a narrow face that was all angles and planes. In a mouth that seemed disproportionately wide, pointed eyeteeth detracted from an otherwise pleasant expression. Arched eyebrows suggested a friendlier nature than what Jess was experiencing at the moment.

Ruairí addressed his captive in the same pleasantly modulated tone as before. "I said I'd answer your questions… and I will. But not with a gun to my head. Understood?"

"Yeah," Jess whispered, reminding himself that arguing with a nutcase was inadvisable. _Just go along with whatever he says an' maybe he won't slit your gullet… _The last action he expected of his assailant was that the other would simultaneously retract the knife and lay the pistol on his belly. Hunkering back on his heels, Ruairí made no attempt to retreat from retaliation range. Jess was too astonished to react. Stunned by this abrupt and unanticipated shift to cooperative mode, he cautiously propped himself up on his elbows and stopped there, the gun still resting on his gut. After all, his assailant still had that pigsticker in his hand.

"Why should I believe that's _your_ horse… and can you prove it?" Ruarí plucked a grass stem and sucked on it.

"He knows me, don't he? Watch…" Jess whistled and called Alamo by name. Alamo obligingly nickered back.

"See? An' he's wearing a SR brand on the side I can't see…"

"So far, so good." The redhead pursed his lips and squinted one eye as if assessing the veracity of Jess's claim. Apparently he found it wanting. "Soooo… you say you're after the man who stole this horse from you?"

"Yeah… no… it ain't like that. We're partners, see…"

"Your partner stole your horse? How impolite." Ruairí observed. "Can't trust anybody these days."

"No… wait… it's _his_ horse…"

"Then why did you said it was yours? Did you steal it from him and he stole it back?"

"Look, we ain't horse thieves. Slim was trackin' a rustler what stole four a our horses an' I was trackin' him…"

"And Slim would be?"

"Slim Sherman… SR stands for Sherman Ranch."

"If it's _his_ ranch, how do you come into this?"

"It were his ranch to begin with—him and his brother—they took me on as partner. Not that it's any a your business."

"Of course it isn't," the other man nodded agreeably, his demeanor unruffled. He rose to his feet in one fluid move, slipping the knife into his boot and reaching out to give Jess a hand up. "Gotta tend to the stew before it burns." Turning his back, he nonchalantly strolled back to the firepit.

_Definitely a loony... _Returning the pistol to its holster and tucking the rifle under his arm, Jess followed.

########################

_**Standoff at the campfire…**_

"Grouse," Ruairí explained, cracking six small speckled eggs into an enameled tin pan and stirring in flour, baking soda and bacon grease.

Seated on the other end of the rock, Jess made a face. "How'dya know they're fresh?"

"Gave 'em the water test. They sank." Dough went into the stewpot, one spoonful at a time. Ruairí gently stirred the concoction as dumplings bobbed to the surface. Flipping the meat in the skillet to brown on the other side, he stated that the meal would be done in about fifteen minutes.

Still smarting at having been so easily overpowered, Jess warily accepted an enameled tin cup of coffee stout enough to strip rust off a plowshare. "Dya think maybe we can talk now?" Impatience bled through though he was doing his utmost to maintain a façade of calmness—a condition contrary to his nature except when under fire or playing poker.

"Sure," Ruairí agreed, reclaiming his seat on the slab. "What assurances can you give me that you aren't out to harm this man?"

_Say what? _"I… he… we're like brothers, him and me," Jess blustered.

"Brothers _have_ been known to commit fratricide. Go on."

_What's he mean by that? _Jess groped for the meaning of the word. Many times he'd been challenged to prove his identity, but no one had ever asked him outright to explain or prove his personal relationship with Slim. Ruairí seemed genuinely interested.

"Our spread's just outside a Laramie. A coupla nights ago someone made off with four broodmares. I was outta town. Slim took out after 'em an' ain't been seen since."_ Why'm I runnin' off at the mouth to a complete stranger? Might as well go for broke…_

"I know somethin's happened to 'im. I followed you here. I know you was ridin' double on Alamo." Jess was scarcely conscious of having pulled his pistol. "I know you got 'im hid out around here an' I wanna see 'im—pronto! If he's hurt, then I gotta get 'im back to the ranch right away… an' if he's dead…"_ It's up to me to avenge his death an' then see he gets laid to rest with his kin. Quit lookin' at me like you're tryin' to decide if I'm tellin' the truth…_

The other man just shook his head, exposing those sharp eyeteeth in a wolfish grin. "And _I'm_ telling you… for the last time… put the damned gun down or we'll continue sitting here until you do. You're welcome to go ahead and shoot me but that won't help your partner none."


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4:_** AN UNEASY ALLIANCE**

_**"****If you want to make peace with your enemy, you have to **__**work  
with your enemy. Then he becomes your partner."**__ • __Nelson Mandela_

_**Ruairí ruminates…**_

The man facing him was thrumming with a barely controlled intensity and his eyes burned with the blue fluorescence of St. Elmo's fire. True, Ruairí had been able to gain the upper hand by catching him off guard, but he knew he wouldn't be able to maintain the advantage for too long, knife or no knife. The man was obviously a seasoned fighter. Ruairí _had_ been—years ago—but wasn't now, either with fists or weapons. Immediately relinquishing the gun to Harper had been a strategic ploy—yielding physical supremacy to the other man while retaining the psychological high ground for himself and saving face for them both. And he'd been counting heavily on the probability Harper wouldn't do anything to jeopardize access to information about his partner.

Ruairí hadn't intended to play cat-and-mouse with Harper, although it must have seemed that way to the other man. Under the circumstances, he truly wanted that assurance that Harper wasn't an assassin in friend's clothing. In the end, his instincts made the decision for him. Even without that pistol pointed at his gut, he wouldn't have mistaken Harper's impassioned plea for anything other than sincerity.

Accepting there wouldn't be a second chance to disarm his adversary, Ruairí set the knife to one side and moved the skillet away from the heat. "I'm going to stand up now," he sighed. "_Please_ put the gun away before you shoot yourself in the foot or something."

"Quit stallin'," Jess ordered, adding indignantly, "I ain't never shot myself in the foot!"

"Before you shoot _me_ in the foot, then. But before I take you to him, there're some things you need to know."

"Like what?"

"If he's still asleep, best leave him be. If he's awake, he might be disoriented."

"Why? What'd you do to 'im?" Jess's voice was low and menacing.

"Nothing. Do you want to know what happened… or not?"

Jess slowly put the gun away. "Tell me."

"I was out hunting. Heard the gunshots. Heard the horses. That chestnut came barreling in my direction without a rider, so I caught him up and headed back toward where the commotion came from. That's where I found your friend, face down in the mud. Another few minutes and he would have suffocated. Looked to me like his horse slipped and rolled on him. Or maybe whoever he was fighting with knocked him off. Either way, he's got a broken arm and a head injury. I didn't find any gunshot wounds when I was cleaning him off."

"So those _are_ his clothes over there?"

"He was soaking wet and covered in mud. Couldn't leave him that way."

"Why didn't you take 'im to the nearest ranch?"

"This was closer. Barely got him into the saddle in the first place. Had to ride pillion and hold him up. It was all I could do to get him this far. He might be okay to ride in a couple of days but right now he needs rest and quiet."

"You some kinda doctor?"

"No. But I can set a broken bone and I know a little about native herbalism. I just want you to be prepared in case he doesn't recognize you right off, or makes no sense if you're able to talk to him."

"All right. So now you told me. Let's go."

########################

_**Going to see Slim…**_

Ruairí padded ahead of Jess, heading directly for what appeared to be an impenetrable mass of serviceberry bushes screening the base of a sheer rock face. He slid through the deceptive greenery to a jutting rock shelf sheltering a cleft barely tall and wide enough to admit a person. Stopping just inside, Ruairí struck a match and fired up a small reflector lamp, revealing a surprisingly spacious chamber. The lamp furnished enough light so Jess could take in the contents of what appeared to be an oval cavity rather than a proper cave. The back wall was visible with no tunnels snaking off into darkness. The sandy floor had been swept clean of detritus. Serving as a shelf for supplies was a rough-hewn bench of saplings lashed together with rawhide strips.

Two sleeping pallets had been set up on opposite walls. One was occupied. Ruairí rotated the lamp so that the light was reflected away from Slim's face. He then lit a candle and held it up as Jess knelt beside his recumbent partner. Slim lay on his back, sandwiched between two blankets on a thick pallet of fresh fir needles. His head was bound with a bandage torn from a shirt. The rest of the item had been sacrificed to bind a splint on his right arm, fashioned from lathes whittled from willow branches. Pretty doggone professional-looking, too, Jess judged. He certainly couldn't have done any better. Slim was snoring peacefully and he looked comfortable enough. He was breathing normally and had a strong, steady pulse. Not seeing any point in waking him up just to ask how he was feeling, Jess silently rose to his feet and stalked out of the cave. Dousing lamp and candle, Ruairí followed.

Back at the campfire, Jess sat down on the slab, deep in thought. His first inclination was to go for a doctor… but that would take at least two days even if one could be persuaded to ride this far. There was no way to bring a wagon closer than six or seven miles from this hideaway, which again would consume two or three days fetching it and driving it back to the ranch. And how would they get Slim to the wagon in the first place? It appeared there was no choice but to wait out the couple of days Ruairí had predicted before it could even be determined _if_ Slim could be moved. A man could ride with a broken arm—that wasn't the problem. It was the severity of the concussion that presented an obstacle to transportation, as Jess well knew. He'd sustained some whoppers in his short life—head injuries that'd left him dazed and plagued for weeks with disruptions in vision and balance, unable to think clearly… or ride a horse.

"Jess… _JESS_…" Ruairí's voice penetrated his thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Best bring your horse in while there's still some light. Supper's about done and then we'll fix you up a place to sleep."

########################

_**The first night…**_

Alamo and Traveller were pleased to see each other, whickering and nuzzling as stablemates do. Twilight was coming on as the two men tucked into their supper. The rabbit quarters were falling-off-the-bone tender and juicy and the stew succulent. Jess could have eaten more but Ruairí kept back enough to feed Slim whenever he woke up. With full dark, fatigue settled over Jess and he could hardly keep his eyes open. In the past few hours, his distrust of the not-Indian had lessened, but he remained uneasy at the thought of relaxing his guard.

Ruairí was collecting their tinware to scrub at the edge of the lake. "For what it's worth, you have my word I'm not planning on lifting any scalps this week. Why don't you go ahead and take my pallet near Slim? That way, if he wakes up during the night you can reassure him, or help him with whatever."

"Where'll you sleep then?"

"Oh… I can bed down most anywhere."

"You do know you ain't really a redskin, right?" Jess cautioned, only partly in jest.

"Don't destroy my delusion," the other grunted. "I'll be all right. Go on. I'll finish up here."

Accepting the offer with reservations, Jess headed for the cave, where he lit a candle just long enough to ascertain Slim's condition hadn't changed, which it hadn't. Certain that his roiling thoughts would preclude sleep, he eased off his boots and lay down fully dressed on the second pallet._ What if the man's lyin' an' plannin' to do me in while I'm sleepin'? What if he just wants me outta the way so he can run off with the horses an' all the gear? What if… what if… what if…_

Jess was asleep before the last wisp of smoke had left the candle's wick.

########################

_**FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4th…**_

Mother Nature saw to it that Jess greeted the morning a lot earlier than he would have liked, and with an urgency that afforded no leisure to put on his boots. It took a few moments to remember where he was… and why… but by that time he'd already scurried toward the slit of pale gray marking the entrance. Relief was only a few barefoot paces off the path—where he fervently hoped there weren't any snakes or scorpions lurking under the serviceberries. Back in the cave, he lit the candle and got as far as pulling on one boot when Slim moaned softly, getting his partner's immediate attention.

"Slim? You awake? Can you hear me?"

Slim's eyes barely opened, slitted against the light. "Jezzz?"

Jess's spirits soared at the recognition. "Yeah, pard… it's me."

"Whuh… whuh you doin' here?" The voice was shaky and speech slurred but Slim seemed in command of his faculties. That was a huge relief.

"Trackin' down your sorry hide, is what. How'd you get yourself in this fix?"

"Where are we?" Slim attempted to shift position and groaned. "Help me up."

"Easy there! You got a busted wing an' a knot on your noggin. You don't need to be movin' around too much yet."

"Where're my clothes? I need a piss."

Under the top blanket Slim was naked as a jaybird. The undertaking was accomplished with much awkwardness and a blanket wrapped around him to ward off the dawn chill, after which Jess somehow managed to maneuver his taller, heavier partner back inside the cave and onto the pallet. With Slim resettled and tucked in, Jess finished putting on the other boot.

In a halting but determined fashion, Slim repeated his earlier query as to their location.

"Cave up past the Skull Rocks," Jess explained. " 'Bout fifty or so miles from home, I reckon. Lemme get you some water."

"Got coffee?"

"I'll hafta make us some. You gonna behave yourself on your own for a few minutes?"

"Dizzy… head hurts."

"Sit tight. I'll be right back."

########################

_**Decisions at daybreak…**_

True daylight was penetrating the crepuscular greyness of dawn although it would be hours yet before the sun would be high enough to send rays to the floor of the canyon. Jess was able to get a fire going from last night's banked coals. Dry supplies such as coffee, flour and beans were stored in a heavy canvas sack weighed down with rocks. Perishable items in a separate bag had been hung out of reach of night-roaming critters. Jess figured to get the coffee going first and take some to Slim before doing something about breakfast. No sign of Ruairí but he couldn't be too far off—his horse was grazing on the far side of the lake along with the other animals. Probably out hunting, but evidently not faring too well as there hadn't been any gunfire.

Taking the coffeepot and cups back to the cave, Jess sat with Slim long enough to answer his somewhat garbled questions. Between them they emptied the pot and Slim dozed off. Returning to the campfire, Jess found Ruairí skinning out the first of three more rabbit carcasses. A dozen eggs of varying sizes and colors nestled in handfuls of grass on one of the tin plates. The other plate was full of black currants. Yesterday's stew was rewarming on the coals and a second pot of coffee was steaming.

"Sorry… didn't know you was back or we wouldn't a hogged the whole pot," Jess apologized. "He had a buncha questions but he's kinda slow gettin' 'em out."

"No problem. How is he otherwise?" Ruairí inquired politely.

"Well, he knows who he is an' who I am."

"Maybe he'll be able to travel sooner than I'd thought."

"Don't know about that. Got 'im on his feet long enough for a constitutional but he's pretty shaky."

"Up to you and him to decide when he's ready."

"I'm thinkin' we might oughta try fetchin' a doctor."

"From where? The nearest town's more than a day's hard ride away and there's no other settlement I know of."

"I know," Jess said disconsolately. "It's just that…"

"Is he fevered? Does he seem to be in a lot of pain?"

"No an' some. But he's talkin' awful slow… says he feels fuzzy."

"Sounds normal for concussion. I've been there. I assume you have, too."

"Well… yeah. Time or two."

"Think about it… didn't you need a couple of days in a quiet, low-light environment?"

"Guess so. Still…"

"Look… if a doctor _were_ here, he'd advise against moving a concussion victim unless it's absolutely necessary. And there wouldn't be anything he could do for Slim that isn't already being done. He might recover in a day or two… or it might be a week. You'll just have to be patient."

"It ain't just that. We run a stage relay station along with the ranch. If we're gonna be here a while, I need to make some arrangements..."

"So get on your horse and go. I'll see to Slim. Wasn't planning on moving on anyway."


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5:_** A PLACE TO BE**

_**"****Not the place where you were born but where  
you hang your hat is home."**__ • __African proverb_

_**Conscience and questions…**_

Jess struggled—stay or go? Loyalty demanded he stick with Slim until he was able to ride. But Slim would argue that his—Jess's—first responsibility was to the ranch and the other members of the family. There was risk involved in either decision, and they both depended on the trustworthiness of a possibly deranged stranger with a questionable grip on reality. Jess and Slim'd had many a go-round about trust issues. Slim freely acknowledged that his younger partner had plenty enough reason for wariness, having on many occasions experienced the devastating effects of betrayal by persons Jess had reckoned to be 'friends'. Instilling and reinforcing a basic faith in humanity had been one of Slim's ongoing pet projects over the years. And, Jess had to admit, the situations in which he'd been encouraged by Slim to take a leap of faith had generally turned out okay without any ill consequences. But Slim wasn't backing him up this time.

"Lemme think on it," Jess finally choked out. "Need help with those rabbits?"

"Nah. I'm good."

"Okay." Jess stooped over to poke at one of the carcasses, having noticed the bloody gouge in its gut. "How'd you…? I mean, I didn't hear no gunshots."

"That's the advantage of bow hunting—no noise to scare off game." Ruairí nodded toward a sapling against which was propped an unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows.

Abandoning the rabbit, Jess walked over to the bow, which he estimated to be near three feet in length from nock to nock. The three-ply braided sinew string was still attached to one end. "You mind?"

"Help yourself."

Picking it up for a closer examination, Jess estimated its weight as between eight and ten pounds, probably with a correspondingly heavy draw. Tremendous upper body strength would be required to string and operate such a weapon. He threw a speculative glance at its owner, who didn't appear overly muscular. _Must be a lot stronger than he looks, which explains how he was able to jump me..._

"Don't see too many horn bows these days. Where'd you get this one?"

"It's an antique, made from a bighorn ram. Gift from some Shoshone friends I was staying with. Ceremonial but fully functional."

Having more than a passing familiarity with the Shoshone, Jess knew such a prize wasn't given lightly—especially not to a white man… unless he held some position of significance or reverence. The deerhide quiver, embellished with beadwork and porcupine quills, was likewise designed for ceremonial rather than everyday use. It contained a dozen arrows, nock end up and displaying typical Shoshone long fletching of split owl feathers. Withdrawing one, Jess studied the business end of translucent black obsidian. He'd seen men impaled by these razor sharp projectiles. Shuddering, he put it back.

This opened up a whole new thread of possible history for the man who wasn't a native but dressed as one and seemed to have acquired an impressive range of aboriginal skills for living off the land. It wasn't unheard of for Indian raiders to spirit away white women and children from a wagon train or farmstead, keeping them as slaves or adopting them into the tribe. What if Ruairí were one of those stolen children and had been granted freedom as an adult, but wasn't able or willing to reintegrate himself into the white world? If that were so, how was he able to keep himself in supplies normally used only by whites… tinware, clothing, coffee, beans and such? Somehow, somewhere, he had to be maintaining contact with white people and acquiring these items by trade—or theft. _And why's he even livin' here… alone in a cave in a canyon? _Questions and more questions.

"Hope you don't mind scrambled eggs and leftover stew since Slim didn't eat yesterday."

"Ain't too proud for leftovers," Jess answered, "an' right now I could chew the butt outta a rag doll."

"Guess that means you're hungry," Ruairí said. "I only had the one set of utensils for myself so I went through Slim's saddlebags and borrowed his. We'll have to share."

Jess's mouth fell open. With all that happened yesterday, he'd overlooked the obvious—he and Slim both routinely maintained mess kits in their trail gear. Chagrined at his oversight, he went to his saddlebags to extract his own cooking and dining contributions. Toting the two sacks of whatever Daisy had packed over to the other end of the flat rock, he began unloading the contents. Working on the next rabbit, Ruarí nodded in approval.

"Oh good. That should see us through a couple more days. You could slice up some of that bacon. I'll need the grease for the frybread."

With his own boot knife, Jess set to work on the slab of bacon.

"Odd that a man would pack shaving gear but no extra clothes," Ruairí commented. "His are dry, by the way, if you want to take them in to him."

"He's got a thing about whiskers," Jess eplained. "Heard tell when he was a servin' officer, he'd take time out to shave afore goin' out to lead a charge."

Ruairí arched an eyebrow. "_Heard _tell? You didn't serve together?"

"Nope. Different sides."

"I see. Is that still a sensitive subject around these parts?"

"We don't talk about it. You?" A delicate question, Jess knew but couldn't help asking, figuring Ruairí to be at least his age if not a few years older… certainly of an age to soldier.

"Different war. Different reasons."

_What's he mean by that? Different war?_

########################

_**Observations and conclusions…**_

Jess would have liked to pursue that enigmatic reply,but it would be inappropriate to do so with someone he'd known less than twenty-four hours. Ruairí didn't seem inclined to discuss it, either. Taking a plate of eggs and frybread to the cave, Jess was able to rouse Slim long enough to consume a few mouthfuls and down a mug of water. Sitting crosslegged on the floor, Jess polished off the uneaten remnants while waiting until Slim went back to sleep, still trying to make up his mind about staying or going. While he was thinking on that, he became aware of someone singing outside. _Singing?_

Carrying the dishes back to the campfire, Jess observed Ruairí waist deep in the lake, where he was industriously soaping his hair. It was foaming away from his head, giving him the appearance of a giant dandelion gone to seed. He was also singing loudly in a fine, lusty tenor with his back to his solitary audience. While Jess was by no means well versed in the aesthetics of music and didn't understand half the words he was hearing, he detected a decidedly martial tone to whatever was echoing off the canyon walls. The longer Jess listened, the more words he was able to pick out of the tune, which was indeed about men marching off to war—gathering _'by the risin' of the moon'_ with pikes on their shoulders, whatever those were. It wasn't about the late American war, so which war was it? Was it that 'different war' to which Ruairí had earlier alluded?

At the conclusion of the last refrain, Ruairí dunked his head underwater and thrashed it around to rinse out the soap. When he stood up, he shook himself with all the contortions of a very large dog. That riot of hair splashed droplets as far as where Jess was standing on the bank.

"Come on in. The water's invigorating!" Ruairí called out.

"You're outta your mind. That water's freezin'," Jess hooted back as the other grinned and dove for the center of the lake. In his estimation, too many minutes passed before Ruairí's head popped up on the far side and he swam back with a sure overhand stroke. Jess turned away, letting out the anxious breath he'd been holding. He'd come late to the art of swimming, having been taught by Andy only a few years ago. While he could now swim well enough to survive, he was still leery of venturing out past touch-bottom depth. Being completely submerged was unnerving but he could do it if he had to.

########################

_**The running man…**_

The slab serving as a meal prep area now held personal grooming items at one end—a small towel on which reposed a straight razor, a leather strop, a cake of soap, a bristle shaving brush, a tin cup doing dual duty as a shave mug, a small mirror with a lanyard, and a comb. The cookpot full of water was steaming on the coals. Jess's thought processes ground to a halt under the onslaught of yet _more_ questions. _Of course_ Ruairí had to shave, being white rather than native. The question was, why bother?

Men who lived reclusive lives in the mountains generally didn't. Men on the drift or traveling in the backcountry didn't. Drovers on a long drive didn't. Jess preferred to be clean-shaven but often went days without when away from civilization. In fact, the only man who _did_… every single day come hell or high water or unless he was near death or being held captive… was Slim. And now Ruairí—two men who for whatever reason held themselves to a higher standard of fastidiousness. This curious parallel between his friend and the stranger formed the first fragile footing in a bridge of trust that Jess could not yet recognize, much less articulate.

Barefoot and stark naked, Ruairí advanced into Jess's peripheral vision and suspended the mirror from a branchlet at eye level. Jess settled on the other end of the slab, folding his arms, watching as the other whipped up a lather in the mug. Sunlight now pouring into the canyon highlighted everything with a golden glow, illuminating details not visible the prior day. Ruairí, for instance, possessed a number of noticeable scars on chest and shoulders. A few of them looked like bullet wounds. A particularly impressive one began under his left shoulder blade and sickled around his rib cage like a crescent moon.

The man was lean and wiry, but not in an undernourished way. His jaws appeared brushed with red furze, nothing like Jess's blue-black five o'clock shadow. Scrunching back his damp hair away from his face, Ruairí bound it at the nape of his neck with a leather thong and began applying lather. If it bothered him having another man watching him, he didn't show it while stropping the razor and beginning his ministrations.

"You mind me talkin' while you're doin' that?" Jess asked.

"Not at all. Fire away. What's on your mind?"

"You, I guess. Who y'are an' why you're here. Askin' polite now… not like yesterday. I was on the prod then an'… you know… worried 'bout Slim."

"Understandable. I'm sure I'd have reacted the same."

"All the same… I'm sorry."

The apology floated between them like gossamer scrim while Ruairí finished, rinsing his face and implements before skinning into his britches.

"So, what do you _think_ I'm doing here?" Taking down the mirror, he seated himself on the other end of the slab, facing Jess, unhurriedly drying the implements before rolling everything back into a leather pouch.

"Seems like maybe you're runnin' from somethin'… or _been_ runnin' an' now just layin' low for a spell. How'm I doin' so far?"

"Pretty good."Pulling the thong from his hair, Ruaíru shook it loose. Instead of getting up and walking away, he faced Jess with an air of resignation. "What else?"

"Looks like you been livin' up here awhile."

"Everybody's gotta be somewhere, Jess. This is the safest, least complicated place for me to be right now."

"How long was you with the Shoshone?"

"Through the winter and spring. They're quite hospitable, for savages." Ruarí shrugged. "Besides, us crazy folk enjoy a certain cachet in their culture, you know."

Jess's neck hairs prickled. He did indeed know how tribes often regarded mentally disturbed individuals as blessed, treating their lunatics with care and reverence rather than locking them away in asylums as did civilized white people. This certainly didn't elevate his comfort level with the present company.

"How come you didn't stay with 'em?"

"Could've, I suppose. The chief offered, but that would've created trouble they didn't need with the Indian Office. Go on."

"Guessin' you don't go into town much."

"Try _not ever_ if I can avoid it."

"Then where…?"

"Do I get my supplies? Let me set your mind at ease. I have an arrangement with a rancher not too far from here—game and green hides and pelts in return for staples. I don't need much to survive."

"This ranch must be a place where you and that Indian pony don't stand out like a sore thumb," Jess observed dryly. Marking the fleeting shadow of alarm that crossed Ruairí's face, Jess's mind leapt ahead to identify where such a ranch might be and who its owner likely was. He decided to keep that to himself for the time being.

"You on the run from the law?" There. It was out. The question he really wanted answered.

"Haven't broken any laws that I know of… not recently, anyway."

"Then why're you hidin'?"

"There're folks out there who'd like to find me and I'd rather they didn't."

"You can't run forever."

"I know that. Wasn't planning on it."

"Weather'll be turnin' in another month. You can't stay here come first snowfall."

"Doubt I need to worry about that."

Ruairí stood up so Jess did, too. He didn't intend to pursue the conversation further but the words spilled out anyway.

"I weren't nothin' but a rollin' stone with a fast gun an' attitude 'til Slim took me in. I'm beholden to him for savin' my life. An' now we owe you for savin' his. Whatever trouble you're in, we'll help best we can."

Ruairí shook his mane ruefully. "One problem at a time, Jess. How far away is your ranch?"

"Day, day and a half ride. Two days if I have to fetch us a doctor from town. I really need to check on things at home… but then I'd be gone four days an' I don't wanna leave Slim that long."

"There's not much you can do here in the next four days anyway. Might as well get going, see to your folks. Good luck finding a doctor who'll ride out this far."

"Who says I'm goin' anywhere?"

"I can see it on your face and in your eyes. And I thank you for the vote of confidence. I promise I'll take good care of your friend for you. One thing, though…"

"What's that?"

"Does he recall how he got here… or me?"

"Come to think of it, no, he didn't mention it. Didn't ask him, neither."

"Then you'd better introduce us before you go."

########################

_**Slim meets his rescuer…**_

Slim was sitting up on the pallet, bunching the blanket around his waist and looking bewildered.

"Heard voices… Jess? Whozzat with you?" In the dim light he squinted past Jess at the shadowy second figure.

Disheartened by the lack of improvement in his partner's vocalization efforts, Jess squatted down, bidding Ruairí to do the same. "Slim… this here's Roo-air-ree. He saved you from drownin', 'fore I got here."

"Drowning?"

"You don't remember?"

"Nothing after…"

"After what?"

"Found the mares… the rustler…"

"Yeah, you caught up to 'im, all right. But there was a fight an' you had yourself an accident. Roo-air-ree brung you here to this cave."

Slim reached out his good arm and clutched at Jess's sleeve. "Daisy and Mike… alone… go home?"

"Not yet, pard. You got hurt. I gotta go check on the ranch, but I'll be back quick as I can. Roo-air-ree's gonna look after you 'til then. That okay with you?"

"Don't go."

"You'll be fine, Slim. You just need to rest for a couple more days an' then we'll both go home."

"What about… horses?"

"We'll go after 'em later, when you're well enough. Go on back to sleep now, y'hear?"

Slim nodded and slumped back on the pallet with a grunt, eyes shuttered. Pulling the blanket back up, Jess gestured to Ruairí and they both left the cave. Fifteen minutes later, Jess led Traveller through the gap in the rocks and mounted up.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6:_** A FORTUITOUS CIRCUMSTANCE**

_**"****Fortune has a human face and bastard Chance  
**__**whores drunken down your streets."**__ • __C.J. Cherryh_

_**A change in itinerary… **_

Heading southwest toward the closest intersection with the stage road and thus the fastest way home, Jess mulled over the conversation with Ruairí. _Talks educated an' sounds like he's from back east somewhere. Says he ain't wanted but why's he hidin' up here in the rocks? Must be a reason. What's he mean by 'different war' an' 'least complicated' place? If I looked like him an' didn't wanna attract attention, first thing I'd do is whack off that hair an' get me a different horse._

The more Jess thought about having left his partner in the care of a possibly crazy stranger, the more misgivings crowded in. Turning Traveller off the track, he headed north toward the ranch of the neighbor he was confident could provide answers and immediate aid to Slim while he himself rode on home. Ruairí's 'barter arrangement' almost certainly had to be with Cory Lake, whose spread lay some twenty miles to the northeast of the Sherman ranch—'neighbor' being a relative term as another ranch lay in between.

Matt Sherman, George Gantry and Ed Lake had filed adjacent homestead claims on the same day and had always maintained amicable relations. Unlike the majority of their peers, the three had never subscribed to the notion of wholesale eradication of natives as a necessity. Sherman and Gantry had harbored no prejudice against Lake because of his full-blood Cheyenne wife. Mary Grace Sherman and Ellen Gantry had taken Little Swan under their wings. Their sons had grown up together. Gantry'd never voiced an objection to the Shermans or Lakes shortcutting across his property. The elder Shermans and Lakes were long gone, of course, and Gantry was a widower.

Slim and Mark Gantry had enlisted together although only Slim had returned. A conscientious objector, Cory Lake stayed home to take care of his widowed mother until she passed away. He and Slim had remained close friends, regardless, and that friendship had been extended to Jess on sufferance.

With the assistance of a number of misguided Laramie citizens, Cory's white uncle and cousins had connived and failed to usurp his inheritance. Afterwards, it had been his intention to open his ranch to settlement by his mother's clan. The majority had refused to budge from what they considered their tribal lands, subsequently finding themselves summarily herded onto a reservation. However, the six families that had accepted the offer now lived and worked on Lake property, though there'd been repeated efforts to dislodge them as well. The government was still working out how to deal with natives dwelling on private property by invitation of the owner. Since then the half-Cheyenne been reticent in his dealings with whites other than Gantry, the Shermans and a handful of others, venturing into town only when necessary to procure supplies.

Cory's Shoshone wife, Chelan, ran a thriving cottage industry. When not tending to their homes, children and vegetable patches, she and the other squaws crafted handsomely decorated fur and leather goods for the tourist and townfolk trade in Laramie. Chelan and the other native women had no desire to enter the town of the whites, to be stared at or disrespected, to allow the value of their goods to be diminished. And that's where George Gantry came in—the trusted middleman who carried the beautifully beaded finished goods to town and haggled the best possible prices for them. No one ever disrespected _him_… or questioned the amount of supplies _he_ purchased. Yeah… Gantry had to be in on the supply chain, too.

Ruairí's presence in the area was beginning to make more sense. Jess had always assumed that—in order to keep their women in raw materials—Cory and his hands were obliged to hunt more often than did white ranchers. Now he had time to think about it, he realized Ruairí—and no doubt others before him—was the provider of the green hides and pelts. Furthermore, there had to be frequent, if not daily, contact between the solitary man and the Lake ranch. Natives had a profound respect for the providence of nature—unfortunately not shared by white trappers and hunters who took only the furs and hides and left the carcasses to rot. Ruairí did not strike Jess as one of those wasteful, arrogant men. Any large game he slaughtered would be delivered to the ranch for immediate consumption or preservation or someone regularly rode out to pick it up.

Although Jess himself could have ridden straight through, he had too much regard for Traveller to push him that hard. Stopping for the night at sundown, he figured he'd make Lake's place by noon and that would be soon enough.

########################

_**SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5th…**_

Jess's arrival occasioned no excitement or alarm. His face was known to Cory's people. The few women about offered shy smiles of welcome. Children at play abandoned whatever they were doing and ran to greet him. A shirtless man detached himself from a group repairing a corral fence and came forward. It took a minute for Jess to recognize him as Daniel Twelvetrees, one of Chelan Lake's cousins and another childhood friend of Slim's. He recalled hearing Dan had been among the first graduates of St. Jude mission school up at the Wind River reservation, where the Jesuits had singled him out for higher education at an eastern university.

"Might've known you'd show up just in time for dinner, Harper," Dan quipped with a perfectly straight face. Twelvetrees was taller and lighter-skinned than most of his brethren. With his hair barbered white-man style, he could easily pass for Mediterranean European.

"Good to see you, too, Dan. You livin' here now?"

"No. Just visiting for a few weeks between assignments. The government doctor up at the Wind River agency is retiring. I'm taking over the clinic next month."

Jess froze in mid-dismount, engulfed in a flash of illumination. "You're… a… doctor…" he sputtered.

"Have been for quite some time," Dan grinned. "Got the sheepskin from Bowdoin to prove it. Say, you gonna hang there all day?"

Jess slid the rest of the way off the saddle. _How could I forget that? This's gotta be a miracle or the biggest coincidence ever… Slim needin' a doctor real bad an' here's one right under my nose. Sort of…_

"Dan… I…" Jess was interrupted by a woman's tinkling laugh behind him.

"Oh my. Look what the coyote dragged in!" On the front porch of the main house, Chelan Lake was grinning with delight. "Come on in, you rascal. I've just pulled a peach cobbler out of the oven and I'll put on a pot of coffee. Dan, put on a shirt and join us, please." The last time Jess'd seen Cory's wife, she'd been in braids and doeskins. Today she was dressed as any other ranch wife in a black cotton skirt with a white blouse not disguising an advanced pregnancy. Her glossy blue-black hair was pulled away from her face into a single plait that reached to her waist.

As the Shoshone and Cheyenne were historical enemies, everyone attributed the success of this particular marital match to Cory's general inclination toward contrariness. He'd simply shown up one day with a new bride from a rival tribe and dared anyone to say anything about it. At first they'd maintained the pretense that Chelan spoke no English, waiting to see what sort of reception she would receive from the neighbors and their ladies. The deception had proved unnecessary as the ranch wives had been warm and welcoming. Chelan Lake turned out to be more than just a pretty face. Under her dominion the Lake ranch now harbored an additional four Shoshone families, living and working together without enmity.

Though her Catholic mission school English and parlor-worthy manners were more correct than Jess's, Chelan made a nominal effort to observe the traditional proprieties according to the social mores of her husband's people. Among the older generations of Cheyenne it was improper for a female to be alone in a dwelling with an unrelated male. Dan's presence made it possible for Chelan to invite Jess into her home without offending sensibilities—however, she would have done it anyway.

No matter how much of a hurry Jess was in, it would have been rude to say so or barge in behind the hostess. He lingered on the porch until the other man retrieved his shirt from where he'd hung it on the corral fence and called over a youngster to take charge of Traveller.

########################

_**Jess makes an appeal…**_

"As nice as it is to see you, I suspect this isn't purely a social call," Chelan demurred, pouring coffee for the three of them.

"No, ma'am. 'Fraid it ain't."

"And I'm afraid Cory isn't here. He's gone to town and won't be back until late tomorrow. Hopefully there's something Dan or I can help you with?"

"More than I coulda wished for, Miz Lake… that is, if Dan ain't pullin' my leg about bein' a doctor, 'cause that's what I need."

Around mouthfuls of excellent cobbler, Jess explained about his partner's pursuit of the stolen horses, his encounter with the thief, the accident and consequential injuries, and his own part in tracking Slim and an unknown party to the canyon. When he got around to describing his encounter with Slim's rescuer, he knew his conjectures about Ruairí had been right on the money. A sustained look of dismay passed between the woman and her cousin, which he pretended to not see.

"That ain't my only problem. Right now Garland Bartlett's son Tommy an' one a his hands're lookin' after the place. I was gonna go back, get some supplies together, let Daisy know what happened an' that we'll be gone for a while, then go right back…"

Pausing for air, Jess was aware of the unspoken question hanging over the table: _Why _had_ he come here instead of making fast tracks for home? _If it were asked, he wasn't even sure he could supply a sensible answer.

"This person of whom you speak…" Chelan began delicately, "is known to us. He may appear somewhat odd to you, but he is reliable and will do his best for Slim until your return."

"But he ain't no doctor."

"No. But of all those who _could_ have found Slim..." She didn't need to articulate the implications.

"I guess what I wanna know is, just how well dya know 'im?"

"Well enough we have offered him a place here for the winter. First frost is coming soon. The old ones say so."

"Tell me true… is he right in the head?"

"Let's just say he's mildly eccentric, Jess. Anything else you want to know, you'll have to ask him."

"Claims he was with your people before he lit here. That true?" Jess persisted.

"Yes. The chief sent him to us from Wind River. I believe you know my father?"

"Chief Bear's your pa? Heard of 'im. Ain't never met him."

Chelan flashed Jess a mischievous grin. "I understand you _have_ met my sister. Kateri? The one studying to become a doctor like Dan here?"

Jess felt his face redden. If she knew _that_, then she might've heard of his and Andy's escapades in fish camp two summers ago. That was an interlude in his life he wasn't likely to ever forget, and one that he and Andy had made a pact to never reveal in its entirety to his older brother. Or anyone, for that matter. But it was a known fact that women blabbed. About everything. Especially sisters.

"Oh, don't worry. My lips are sealed. And there's nothing mysterious about why Fox-on-Fire came here. The Indian Office was taking an unhealthy interest on behalf of certain individuals who are looking for him. He needed to be elsewhere."

"Fox?"

"Fox… as in red fox. We call him that for obvious reasons. His white name is entirely too difficult to pronounce."

Dan hadn't said a word during the preceding exchange but his face had taken on a set expression Jess couldn't interpret as anything other than hostile. His gut took a nosedive. Not an hour ago he'd been elated at the possibility of obtaining immediate medical treatment for Slim… but did whatever problem the native doctor have with Ruairí mean he wouldn't go?

"Am I missin' somethin' here?" Jess inquired softly, looking from one to the other. "If Slim's in any danger…"

"No, he isn't," Chelan assured him. "Dan has issues with Fox but this isn't the time or the occasion to deal with them. Is it, Dan?"

"No."

"You'll ride with Jess tomorrow, yes?"

"Of course."

"And stay with Slim as long as needed?"

"I will."

_A reluctant doctor's better than none,_ Jess thought.

########################

"_**Here's what we'll do…"**_

Not for nothing were a tribe's women the driving forces of domestic life in their encampments. Just as in the white world, where women were taught to present a public face of subservience, a surprising number of them ruled the roost and dealt with practicalities at home. Chelan Lake arranged for two young men already known to Gantry and the Shermans to ride to the Sherman ranch in the morning. With their close-cropped hair and 'white' clothing—patterned cotton shirts, denims, boots and hats—they wouldn't be mistaken for hostiles. Just to be on the safe side, they were to stop at Gantry's and enlist at least one of his obviously white hands to accompany them.

"There's no need for you to go yourself, Jess. Missus Cooper can recognize your handwriting, can't she? Write her a message. Calvin and Charlie can deliver it, stay at your place and tend to your stock, the stages and anything else Missus Cooper might require. If she already has help from Bartlett's, all the better."

"But I…"

"But nothing. It's too late for you to start riding back tonight. You can bunk in with Dan and the two of you can set out at first light. That will give me time to assemble what provisions you might need for at least a week."

"You sure this'll be okay with Cory, Miz Lake? I didn't mean for you to go to this much trouble."

"Trouble? Slim Sherman stood behind Cory when no other white man would. If not for him, Cory would have lost everything… his honor, his ranch, his life. We owe him a debt of gratitude that can never be adequately repaid. You boys turn in early and I'll take care of everything else."


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7:_** SEEING TO SLIM**

_**"****PTSD is a normal reaction to extreme trauma, just as  
**__**bleeding is a normal reaction to being stabbed." **__ • __LyndaLRS_

_**SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 6th…**_

The lady of the house was as good as her word. When Dan and Jess rolled out before dawn it was to find Traveller and Dan's mount already saddled and waiting along with a fully-loaded mule. A hearty breakfast was on the table and Chelan Lake insisted they do it justice to before departing.

The trip back to the canyon took much longer as they had to accommodate the laden mule's slower pace. They had to go single file most of the way so there was little opportunity for conversation except whenever Jess called for a breather and when they made camp that evening.

"That cousin of yours is somethin' else," Jess opined. They were hunkered by the fire, finishing off the last of the coffee before turning in.

"Isn't she though? Cousin Kateri's even worse. So you've met her, huh? I'd like to hear that story."

"Some other time, maybe." Jess quickly changed the subject. "Can I just call you Doc from now on? 'Doctor Twelvetrees' sure is a mouthful."

" 'Doc' is fine… or Dan will do when it's just us. What time do you think we'll get there?"

"Midafternoon, I reckon."_ It's been more'n three days… please Lord, let him still be alive._

########################

_**MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 7th…**_

Jess pulled up when they reached the canyon entrance. "You been here before?"

"No. Calvin or Charlie usually make the runs."

"Best let me go in first. Let 'im know it's me an' I ain't alone."

"You go right ahead. I'll wait here."

Leaving Traveller with Dan, Jess strolled through the cleft and announced himself in a loud voice that reverberated off the canyon walls. "I'm back. Got company. Don't shoot."

Getting no response, he called out again. "Roo-air-ree… you here?"

"Wasn't expecting you back so soon." Ruairí's muffled voice came from somewhere close although he wasn't visible.

"Where are you?" Jess looked around, perplexed. There were any number of rocks and crevices big enough to conceal a person. Jess could understand the other man exercising caution… but now that he knew Jess's identity why wasn't he showing himself? "Come out where I can see you."

"Not yet."

"Suit yourself. Found us a doctor… Dan Twelvetrees. He's outside with the horses."

Silence.

"Didja hear me?"

"I heard you. Why did you go to Lake's place instead of home?"

"A hunch. Does it matter?" _And how does _he_ know I _didn't_ go home?_

"I guess my appreciation for your confidence was premature."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Go get him."

Jess decided to act as if he were totally ignorant of any friction between the two. Often you could learn a lot more from watching than asking. Not about to play hide-and-seek with a grown man, he turned on his heel and went back out. Coming in the second time, leading Traveller and the mule, he stopped to let Dan catch up with him.

The doctor looked around curiously. "Well, where is he? I heard you talking. Where'd he go?"

Jess shrugged. "No idea. Couldn't see where he was talkin' from."

"Can we leave the animals unattended for a few minutes? I'd like to see Slim first."

"Sure. I'll take you to him."

########################

"_**How long since this happened?"**_

Jess stood by with the lantern while Dan gently probed at Slim's skull. "I make it near on a week an' a half."

"Has he been unconscious the whole time?"

"I weren't here the whole time… just the one day. We talked some, an' I got 'im up to piss. He et a little, but not a whole lot. Mostly he slept hard… like he's doin' now. You'd have to ask Roo-air-ree about before I got here an' after I left."

"Uhuh. I need to talk to Fox, anyway… find out what drugs he's been giving him."

"Drugs? He ain't poisoned him, has he?"

"No… no, nothing like that. He's done the right thing in keeping him quiet. There's nothing I need to do right this minute. Let's go unpack the mule and I'll tell what I know about the effects of concussion."

The elusive man materialized from the shadows as they hauled the last sacks of supplies under shelter. In his peripheral vision Jess could see Dan adopting a stiff, adversarial posture and a scowl that would sour milk. _Dan's got a face on 'im like he wants to punch Roo-air-ree's lights out… what's up with that? _ Ruairí stood well out of strike range with an impassive expression.

"Where the hell'd you run off to?" Jess barked. "Dan needs to know what you been givin' Slim to make him sleep so long."

Ruairí rattled off a string of words and phrases mostly incomprehensible to Jess but evidently meaning something to Dan, who reluctantly nodded his head in approval. In his limited understanding of the Shoshone language, Jess nonetheless recognized the native words for willowbark and ditchweed.

"Can you get more?" Dan asked brusquely.

"Yes."

"Then do it."

Ruairí vanished as silently as he'd appeared. Jess grasped the doctor's forearm. "Whatever the beef is between you an' him, I gotta know it ain't gonna interfere with you takin' care of Slim."

"It won't." Dan said, disengaging Jess's fingers. "Don't know about you but I'm hungry. I'm pretty sure my cousin packed us some grub ready to eat."

Chelan's basket yielded fried chicken, baked beans, pickles and cornbread. Jess savored every morsel, reckoning they wouldn't be eating that good in the foreseeable future. There was enough left over for the other two men, whenever one awakened and the other deigned to show his face again. While Jess secured the remaining food and cleaned their plates and utensils, Dan went to check on Slim, reporting back that his patient was still sleeping.

"About Slim's condition… I won't bore you with technicalities other than, in my opinion, it's a relatively mild concussion. I couldn't detect any skull deformities that would suggest fracture. The scalp wound's minor and already scabbed over. Headache, confusion, vertigo, crankiness—all are normal manifestations, nothing to worry about. Fox has been keeping him sedated with willowbark and ditchweed tea, which is fine. I did pack some laudanum in my kit but I'd rather not use it if I don't have to."

"When can he ride?"

"Every case is different, Jess. Slim's got the constitution of an ox. Always has, so I'm told. Might take him awhile to recover enough to fork a horse but I'm confident that he will."

"What about his arm?"

"Simple fracture of the ulna that'll heal in a month. Didn't need resetting so I wrapped it back up." Dan jutted his chin toward the lake. "Any fish in there?"

"What?"

"Fish. We're gonna be here for two or three more days. Might as well relax and enjoy it."

########################

_**Dan tells a story…**_

The two men were sprawled on the lake's grassy bank. Chelan had thoughtfully sent along a pouch containing hooks, lead weights and a skein of jute twine. The fishermen had fashioned poles from saplings, now propped over the water with rocks. Between them the cookpot temporarily housed an assortment of bait—grubs, earthworms and crickets kept in confinement by an upturned tin plate with a rock on top. A stringer fastened to a nearby bush held six pan-size lake trout.

After they'd explored several topics—from boyhood adventures to Dan's experiences as one of a handful of aboriginal students in a sea of white collegians—Jess again brought up the question of Dan's animosity toward Ruairí, conspicuous by his absence.

"It's a long story."

"I got nothin' but time."

Dan was quiet for several minutes—long enough that Jess began to think he should have left well enough alone and not mentioned the subject.

"Before I say anything else, Jess… I should remind you that, technically, I was a Union officer…"

_And what's that got to do with the price a beans? _"Been a long time over, Dan. I don't hold no grudges."

Dan actually chuckled. "You and I know that isn't entirely true. Those of us who were there, we'll never forget—being attached to a hospital, though, I never saw combat—just the results. Another thing… let me teach you how to properly pronounce the man's name. The way you say it sounds like a tomcat looking for love. Hurts my ears."

After a couple of tries, Jess got it right, with emphasis on the correct syllable. "But you still call 'im 'Fox'," he argued.

"Only when I'm around my people. That's the only name they know him by. Do you want to hear this story or not?"

"Sorry. Go ahead."


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8:_** WAR STORY**

_**"****War is wretched beyond description, and only a fool **__**or  
a fraud could sentimentalize its cruel reality."**__ • __John McCain_

_**Buccaneers…**_

"Mister Conor and I met once before… a long time ago, during the war."

_Which answers nothing,_ Jess thought, blurting out "What'd he ever do to you?"

"To me personally, nothing… but… to our country..."

"Are you sayin' he's like… a traitor or somethin'? He told me he weren't in the war." _What he said was, he was in a _different_ war…_

"Piracy, Jess. Old-fashioned high seas buccaneers. Treacherous bastards who'd sell out their own grandmothers if the price was right."

"Don't you mean _privateer_… like a blockade runner?"

Just saying the words triggered a long-dormant defensive mechanism in the former soldier. The Confederacy would have collapsed within the first year of the rebellion had it not been for the efforts of dauntless captains evading Union seaport blockades to furnish the South with weapons and supplies. _Privateer_ and _blockade runner_ were not pejorative terms in Jess's vocabulary. However, _pirate_ was—thanks to his Florida expedition almost two winters ago. Most people thought of _pirates_ as relics of a previous century. _Piracy_ conjured up images of tricorn hats, eye patches, peglegs and parrots. Jess knew better. Piracy still existed, albeit in a considerably less conspicuous form… but this was the first he'd heard of its occurrence during the war.

Also, Jess wasn't ignorant of the fact thousands of natives had participated in the war, on both sides… but up until this moment it hadn't occurred to him Doctor Daniel Twelvetrees of the Eastern Shoshone might have been one of them. That was one of the topics they'd prudently avoided earlier—Dan almost certainly being aware Jess and Slim had fought on opposing sides. Jess struggled to interpret the nuance here. By _country_, did he mean as it was then—the Union, excluding the South, which would put Ruairí on the side of the Confederacy? Or did he mean as it was now, in its post-war reunified state? It was one thing to pose the oblique question, _'Did you fight?'_… and quite another to bluntly ask, _'Which side?'_ While Jess mulled this over, Dan continued.

"No. I mean _pirate_… as in opening fire on another ship, capturing it if possible and stealing its cargo. Killing its captain and crew unless they surrendered. Sometimes even if they did." Dan seemed to sense Jess's confusion over the distinction between _pirate_ and _privateer_. "Piracy has always been illegal, punishable by death. Lincoln declared privateering the equivalent of piracy, with the same consequences. Conor and his ilk may have started out as privateers and friends of the Confederacy, but they wound up being nothing more than common criminals plundering both sides." Dan waited for Jess's reaction.

_That's kinda hard to swallow, him bein' such a scrawny little feller, _Jess thought. _Not too little to take me down, though._ "How do you know all this… about him, I mean?"

########################

_**A geography lesson…**_

Dan nibbled at a grass stalk and looked away. "How's your geography, Jess?"

"Fair enough, I reckon. Why?"

"The college I went to—Bowdoin—is in Brunswick in the state of Maine, which adjoins the Canadian border on the Atlantic coast. I'd just started medical school when war broke out. By that fall, many of the professors and older students who were fit to serve had enlisted. We younger students were recruited into the state militia but held in reserve."

Although Jess couldn't see what relevance this had to the absent individual, he kept quiet.

"By the following spring we were doing accelerated courses because doctors were so badly needed in the field. The school was churning out new ones as quickly as possible, sending them off half-trained and not equipped to deal with the magnitude of slaughter. Guess I don't have to tell you what that was like."

Jess felt the old, familiar constriction in his gut whenever one of those mentally compartmented images broke free. Bodies upon bodies, the screams of the mortally wounded, the stench of blood and death. Field hospitals little more than charnel houses and overcrowded hospitals behind the lines. He couldn't help shuddering at the memories, suppressed for years and now resurging in living color.

Dan paused to allow his companion to regain his equilibrium.

"There were never any land battles in Maine, but Brunswick is a seaport so there was a lot of naval traffic—warships and support vessels—in addition to fishing boats and merchant marine shipping. No one was really aware of it at the time, but the Irish immigrant community north of town was engaged in privateering under the guise of commercial fishing. Ruairí Conor was a son of the leader of that community.

"In the beginning they were very careful, waiting until they were well beyond territorial seas before changing flags and camouflaging their boats. As the war dragged on into the second year, though, Union warships started getting the upper hand and privateers started losing their profit margins. Most of 'em up and quit but others turned to piracy… intercepting _all_ shipping, not just that bound for Northern ports.

"By that time most of the medical school campus had been requisitioned as a hospital facility. Undergraduates were being co-opted to staff positions because there weren't enough doctors to go around. We were taking in a lot of maritime casualties, including any injured enemy crew—rebel or pirate. Those were placed at our hospital under guard until stabilized enough to be transferred to a prisoner-of-war camp.

"The Connacht gang had cutters disguised as fishing vessels laying up in Portland Harbor, waiting for nightfall. They were planning to attack a convoy of British steamships ferrying arms and ammunition out of Liverpool via Yarmouth, Nova Scotia to Boston. What they _didn't _know was Union military intelligence had ferreted out their headquarters in Brunswick after a dissenter within their own ranks leaked the plans. That day the army swept up almost all the gang leaders and assigned an armed escort to the convoy. When the raiders sailed out of the harbor, they were outnumbered in the fight that followed. It was a bloodbath with heavy casualties on all sides—civilian, navy and pirate.

########################

_**Doctor meets pirate… again…**_

"I was on surgery call that morning when they started bringing in the casualties. It was horrific… especially the burn cases. One of the ships blew a boiler and a powder magazine exploded in another. Patients who weren't burned or missing limbs were triaged to the back of the line. The ones who'd been positively identified as belonging to the so-called Irish 'fishing community' were detained in an empty grain warehouse with no water or food. All but three of them died before we could get around to them that evening. Fifty-seven men."

Jess shivered, trying to dismiss from his head a scenario scarily similar to one he himself had endured. Judged unsalvageable, he'd been shunted aside in favor of others more likely to survive surgery. Sheer cussedness had kept him hanging on until he could be treated and restored to some semblance of health and mobility—just enough to earn entry to a prisoner-of-war camp… where many times he wished he _had_ died.

Dan was shaking his head with a rueful expression. "People outside the medical profession don't understand the moral dilemma a doctor faces in wartime. There I was, consumed with professional zeal, believing in the tenets of the Hippocratic Oath and the code of medical ethics. On the other hand, I was sworn to the service of the Union Army, if only as a provisional lieutenant in a reserve unit. My job as a soldier was to vanquish the enemy by whatever means necessary.

"Many upper echelon officers believed it was expedient to simply let enemy casualties die. We were having a hard enough time as it was, keeping our standing army fed and doctored without having to divert precious resources to keeping alive thousands of prisoners of war. We were even advised that it wouldn't be taken amiss if those last three patients were helped along on their way out. Wouldn't take much—a slip of a scalpel, an extra dose of chloroform.

"And that's how I met Ruairí Conor."

########################

"_**Come again?"**_

Jess hadn't been paying strict attention until the apparent midpoint of Dan's narrative.

"It was late evening… I'd been on my feet in the operating theater since dawn, with two other interns. The guards wanted to go home to their families so they dumped those last three prisoners on us and vamoosed. We were so angry, so full of rage… and so tired. We came so close to just letting them lie there until they bled out…"

"But you didn't."

"No. Ethics and empathy—what little we had left in us—prevailed. We did what we could and found some orderlies to move 'em to the general ward. Two of the patients didn't make it until morning but mine did—a skinny, red-headed kid."

"Ruairí Conor?"

"Yeah. We didn't know then who he was and he didn't do much talking those first few days. He had a pretty severe head injury and a cutlass wound that almost filleted him like a fish. I dug out a couple of minié balls, too. When he got to where he _could _talk, he _wouldn't_."

"What happened then?"

"He was too weak to move to the detention wing, so he remained in general population where I could keep an eye on him for the following month. Then I got sick myself—lung fever—and was flat on my back in the contagion hospital, which was a different building. When I was released, I found out our Irish pirate had escaped before he could be transported to the Elmira camp. He'd been identified, finally, and had a price on his head. That was twelve years ago. Today's the second time I've seen him since. What do you think of your new acquaintance now, Jess?"

"Like I said, war's been over a long time, Dan."

"The pundits who're writing that piece of history believe it would've ended much earlier if it hadn't been for the privateers propping up the South's economy with gunrunning… or if there hadn't been so much piracy of armaments coming to the Union from England and continental Europe. People have long memories, Jess, when it comes to loved ones they've lost."

"President Johnson pardoned everyone, didn't he?"

########################

**"**_**Not everyone. Not the first time around."**_

The voice coming from behind them startled the pair of fishermen. Jess twisted in a play for his gun, which wasn't there—his gunbelt slung over a low-hanging branch just out of reach. Dan flinched but didn't turn around. Ruairí was standing some twenty feet away with a stoic expression.

"There were fourteen categories of exclusions to the '65 proclamation of pardon. Number eleven was _all parties engaged in the destruction of commerce upon the high seas._"

"How long you been there?" Jess croaked, embarrassed not only at the substance of the overheard discussion but at the fact that the not-Indian had managed to sneak up on him and the _real _Indian.

Ruairí shrugged. "Long enough."

Scrambling to his feet, Jess jerked his chin at his companion. "What he said. Is it true?"

"No point in denying it, is there?"

"So you lied about not havin' a price on your head."

"There was one… until Johnson granted general amnesty in '68. But I was out of the country then. Don't know if it still applies."

Dan weighed in. "As a member of that exclusion class, unless you officially applied for and received a pardon, you're still an enemy of the state. I don't know if there's a statute of limitations on piracy."

Jess looked from one to the other. "I ain't sure I'm followin' here. Is he wanted somewhere… or ain't he?"

"I don't know," Dan admitted, standing up next to Jess. "Maritime law was of interest to me back then—somewhat of a hobby until I graduated medical school and then I didn't have the leisure time to pursue it."

The smallest of the three, Ruairí looked anything but formidable. "Tale for another time, but not today. Slim's calling for you." Stepping backward into the shadows, he disappeared.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9: _** DÉ****TENTE**

_**"****Détente—isn't that what a farmer has with his turkey…  
until Thanksgiving?"**__** • **__**Ronald Reagan**_

_**THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 10th…**_

Two days had passed quietly, with gradual but significant improvement on Slim's part. With nothing to do but eat, sleep and fish, Jess was twitching with unexpended energy. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Calvin Elkhorn entered the canyon with an signaling whistle, leading his mount and a pack mule. Jess hurried forward to meet the Cheyenne youngster.

"Thought you was at my place, Cal," Jess said, offering his hand. "Everything okay there?"

"All good. Auntie Chelan go see Miz Cooper. She say first frost come… maybe tonight, tomorrow."

"Who say… I mean, who said?"

"Miz Cooper say. She send blanket, jacket for keep warm. More food. I bring."

Dan joined them, scowling at the teenager. "Knock off the Injun Joe routine, Calvin. You're not in town."

The kid grinned. "Sorry 'bout that, Mister Harper. Force of habit."

"Call me Jess. Tell me what's going on at the ranch while we unload."

########################

"_**Everything but the kitchen pump…"**_

… Dan grumbled, wrestling a wicker pannier full of tinned foods off the beleaguered mule.

"Don't count on it," Jess grunted, staggering under the matching pannier containing half a dozen thick blankets, Slim's and Jess's roughout shearling jackets and an assortment of other heavy winter garb. "Why do women always insist on all this unnecessary baggage? We ain't campin' at the North Pole."

"I'll ask my wife next time I see her," Dan huffed.

"You married? I didn't know that."

"She's still back East. I'll send for her soon's I get settled in the new job."

"Fox around somewhere?" Calvin inquired. Having stripped his horse and sent it off with a slap on the rump to join the others grouped at the other side of the lake, he'd returned to take care of the mule. He caught the exchange of guilty looks between Dan and Jess.

"What? He's here, ain't he? Got some news for him from Uncle Cory."

The redhead was 'around' all right, but hadn't actually been _seen_ since that unpleasant exchange on Friday afternoon. His bedroll, shaving gear, eating utensils and one skillet had disappeared as well. The spotted horse was still in the canyon, so he wasn't far away. Jess assumed he was choosing to maintain a diplomatic distance from the doctor. Evidence of nightly visitations had been left near the campfire—rabbits and wildfowl, along with crudely woven baskets containing eggs, ditchweed buds and leaves, and willowbark. Jess wasn't so much worried about how the man might be faring as he was about facing Chelan Lake's displeasure if anything happened to Ruairí after being cast out of his own home, such as it was.

This morning's offering was a dressed weanling-sized piglet. Jess and Dan had inspected the item with trepidation. "Don't s'pose he stole this critter, do you?" Jess asked. "We ain't got no wild hogs I know of."

"Probably best not to ask, but I wouldn't be surprised, given his…"

"Oh come on… you ever hear a pirates stealin' pigs?"

This afternoon, neither wanted to admit to the Cheyenne boy that the Lake's friend was missing.

Sixteen-year-old Calvin was too sharp for his elders. "Run him off, huh? Uncle Cory told how you got a grudge on account a somethin' what happened a long time ago. But he says whatever Fox used to be don't count no more. You want I should find 'im an' bring him back?"

"Yes… please," Jess answered. _ In my own way, I guess I were a traitor, too… signin' that oath of allegiance when I didn't really believe in it, just to get outta that death camp. I can sorta understand Dan's attitude… but still… I'd like to hear Ruairí's side a the story. He didn't just wake up one day an' decide to be a pirate… any more'n I decided to be a gunslinger. Somethin' musta pushed him in that direction._

When Jess agonized over whether or not Dan's revelations should be shared with Slim, it was the doctor who suggested holding off until Slim was more alert… or at least lucid enough to hold a conversation.

"He's improving," Dan opined. "And I'm satisfied with his recovery rate. But an emotional upset could be a setback. I don't want him riled up by something we can't do anything about at the moment."

"Gotta tell 'im sometime," Jess muttered gloomily, "An' he sure ain't gonna like it."

"As long as Fox is avoiding us, there's no need to tell Slim anything."

########################

_**A chilly evening…**_

The day that had started out balmy had turned unaccountably cool by sunset. What little could be seen of the sky directly overhead was a panoply of diamond-bright stars. There would be frost by morning. Along with coal-baked potatoes, spit-roasted pork made a fine and filling supper. They were working their way through a second pot of coffee, Jess silently blessing Daisy for having the foresight to provide sugar and tinned condensed milk.

Slim's appetite had returned along with his usual ruddy coloring. His speech was near normal except for an occasional lapse when he struggled to find a word. He'd insisted on coming out of the cave to sit by the campfire and have his meal with the others. Dan made him bundle up in his heavy jacket plus one of the blankets. Calvin hadn't returned and Slim didn't seem to notice two of their number were absent.

"It's time to go home, Jess." The declaration was spoken clearly and with conviction.

"Up to Doctor Dan, Slim. Not me," Jess countered.

"Three or four more days, how about it?" Dan suggested.

By firelight Jess could see and sense Slim coming over with a case of the stubborns. _Definitely recoverin'. Gonna start givin' us trouble…_

"I'm fine. Really. I'm not seeing double any more. I'm not nauseous. Just a little headache."

"Just because you're feeling better doesn't mean you're fit to ride," Dan said.

"I think I am and… I… want… to… go… home." There was steel in his voice. By the set of Slim's jaw Jess could tell Doctor Dan was going to have an almighty battle to keep him down. Or maybe not… as he stood up the good doctor was surreptitiously palming a small brown bottle from a pants pocket to a vest pocket.

"You ready for a refill?" he asked Slim.

"Don't mind if I do."

"Milk and sugar?" Dan inquired, taking the cup and filling it.

"You bet."

As the milk and sugar were on the rock slab behind Slim, he didn't see the third additive.

########################

_**An unexpected setback…**_

A low whistle preceded Calvin's arrival out of the darkness. Ruairí wasn't with him.

"Couldn't find 'im?" Jess asked.

"Found 'im but he can't come."

"You mean he refused to come back with you?" Dan asked.

"Nuh uh. Sick."

"Sick in what way, Cal?"

The youngster hesitated. "Well, first he said he was freezin' but while I was standin' there talkin' with 'im he come over all feverish, just like that."

"Probably just got a chill, sleepin' out in the open," Jess said.

Dan scrambled to his feet, going into doctor mode like a dog on point. "How did he _look?_"

"Um… you know… _sick._ But he said don't bother you 'cause he'll be okay by mornin'. Any supper left? I'm starvin'."

"Can you take me to him?"

The youngster was shaking his head. "He don't want for you…"

"Calvin… listen carefully. I have to be sure whatever's wrong with him isn't contagious, that it isn't something he either brought to Wind River or picked up there. The last thing we need is an epidemic on the reservation… or on your ranch. You understand me?"

"Yessir."

"Good. Now, grab something to eat while I get my things together. Jess… come with me, please."

Inside the cave, Dan checked the contents of his medical kit while at his direction Jess rounded up spare blankets.

"I'll need some of that willowbark, a cup, a full canteen and something to boil water in."

"Whaddya reckon's wrong with 'im?" Jess queried, secretly relieved that this might present a solid excuse for not decamping as early as Slim insisted.

"Could be any number of ailments. I won't know 'til I've seen him."

"I should go with you."

"You stay here with Slim. Get him back to bed if you can. I dosed him with enough laudanum he ought to be getting groggy by now."

"Dan…" Jess gripped the other's shoulder. "You made it pretty clear you'd druther see Ruaíri dead… or worse. Don't do somethin' you might regret later."

The doctor's eyes gleamed in the lantern light. "Do no harm, Jess. Do no harm."

########################

_**Man down…**_

As Calvin indicated, Ruairí's alternate campsite wasn't far off—just a hike around the lake, traversing the copse of aspens at the far end of the canyon, and through a slot in the rock wall that gave onto a similar, smaller enclave. He'd established himself under a ledge wide enough to provide shelter for his bedroll and space for a firepit. As described, he was curled up under a single blanket, sweating profusely. He groaned when he saw Calvin was accompanied by the doctor.

"Told you not to bother him." He was coherent enough to sound annoyed.

"Tough shit," the doctor quipped. "I'm here. Deal with it."

Instructing Calvin to build up the fire, Dan handed over the pot, the canteen and the pouch of ground willowbark. "Boil this, please." Sitting down cross-legged next to his newest patient, he put out a palm and felt of the other's forehead.

"When did this come on?"

"Couple hours…"

"Any coughing or congestion? Sneezing?"

"No."

"Sore throat? Vomiting? Diarrhea?"

"No."

"Headache?"

"Yes."

"You told Cal you'd be over it by morning."

"Usually."

"I take that to mean this isn't the first time."

"No."

Dan pondered the possibilities—anything from a common cold to poliomyelitis… none of which could possibly be 'over by morning'. He took a stab at the most likely culprits.

"Help me out here. Have you had the influenza recently?"

Ruairí was gripped by a paroxysm of shaking that set his teeth chattering. "Not… flu… malaria."

Not something the doctor was prepared to hear. He'd had plenty of experience back East with malarial cases, usually war veterans who'd served in the subtropical Deep South or persons who'd traveled outside the United States in tropical climes. However, he'd never encountered the disease among his people or any other high plains tribes.

"This is a complication we sure didn't need."

"Sorry."

"When and where did you contract malaria?"

"Four years ago, Philippines…"

"And how many relapses have you had since then?"

"Five, six…"

"When was the last occurrence?"

"Six months."

"We have to get you back to camp."

"Too late. Leave me alone."

"Well, dammit," Doctor Dan swore to no one in particular, realizing that the window for removing this patient to a more convenient locale was closed. Ruairí was in no condition to walk even the short distance back to camp and Dan could not in good conscience leave him unattended. He wasn't relishing spending the night on hard ground but at least there were enough blankets for both of them.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10:_** ILL-TIMED REVELATIONS**

_**"****A smart person knows what to say. A wise person  
**__**knows whether or not to say it."**__ • __Unattributed_

_**Meanwhile, back at base camp…**_

Jess was endeavoring to talk his partner into retiring for the evening, thinking Dan had underestimated how much laudanum it took to put the big man down. On the other hand, Slim's recall was gaining momentum. He wanted to talk about what he was remembering and Jess wanted to hear it.

"That man… the one they've gone after… he's the one pulled me from the waterhole?"

"Ruairí, yeah. You recollect me introducing him a couple of days ago?"

"Vaguely. At first I thought he was our thief… but he isn't?"

"No. You remember what happened?"

"I caught up with him… the rustler. Rode him down at the edge of the pond and we fought. I tried to knock him out of the saddle. I guess Alamo must've slipped on the bank and lost his footing. We went down and he must've rolled on me. I hit my head on something. Thought I heard a scattergun. Thought Alamo was hit but he got up and took off. The rest is foggy."

"That's what Ruairí said he thought happened. He didn't see it."

"How bad's Alamo hurt?"

"Not at all, far as I can tell. I looked him over pretty good."

"The mares?"

"Lost 'em. But we'll get the word out soon's I can get to town. They all carry brands so someone will've seen 'em."

"Wish you'd trailed 'em, Jess, instead of staying here."

"Yeah… well… ain't no way that was gonna happen an' you know it. Ain't you gettin' sleepy yet?"

Slim grinned, lumbering to his feet. "You think I don't know Dan drugged my coffee? I wasn't weaned yesterday. 'Bout ready to turn in, though. Lead on, MacDuff."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Let's go."

After a detour to the bushes, Slim lowered himself clumsily onto his pallet. He didn't argue when Jess made to pull off his boots or pull a blanket over him.

"One more thing…" The laudanum was taking effect, bringing a slight slur to Slim's speech. "M'serious 'bout tomorrow… 'bout leavin'… tell'm we're goin', 'kay?"

########################

_**Calvin gives Jess the lowdown…**_

Once he was sure Slim had drifted off, Jess returned to the campfire. He was squatting at water's edge, doing the washing up from supper by lantern light when Calvin showed up for the second time.

"Thought you an' Dan was bringin' Ruairí back here?"

"Dan says he's got the malaria fever. He's gonna stay with him tonight." The boy helped himself to the towel on Jess's shoulder and started drying dishes.

Jess recoiled at the words. In his time in prison camp he'd seen dozens of men succumb to the dreaded swamp fever—in addition to smallpox, typhoid, dysentery and cholera when they weren't busy dying from starvation, hypothermia and lack of medical care. On the other hand, it supposedly wasn't contagious. However, he found it difficult it difficult to accept that someone as physically robust as Ruairí could suddenly be laid low by such a debilitating illness.

"How bad?" he asked. "He gonna die?"

"Dan said to tell you they'd be back sometime in the mornin', so I reckon not."

"Did he ask you to bring him back any medicine or more blankets or anything?"

"No. He said he don't have the right kind of medicine nohow, but he asked could you make up a pot of willowbark tea an' let it set all night so's it'll be good an' strong in the mornin'."

"I can do that. You take Dan's pallet tonight. We can fix up two more tomorrow if we need to."

"If?"

"Slim's dead set on leavin' here tomorrow an' goin' home. I figure we can all ride together as far as…"

########################

_**More bad news…**_

"Oh shit!" the boy exclaimed, rocking back on his haunches. "Just now remembered what I was supposed to tell Fox about the strangers!"

"What strangers? Who you talkin' about?"

"Some men come around askin' about him. Musta been the same gang wantin' to search your place earlier."

"Whoa! Wait a minute! You said everything at the ranch was okay... did they do any damage or bother Miz Daisy? Didn't you an' Charlie try to stop 'em?"

"Charlie an' me was in the corral gettin' the teams ready when they rode up—seven of 'em an' only two of us. They was armed an' we wasn't. Just so happened Mister Bartlett from up the road was visitin'. He met the leader at the door with Miz Daisy's shotgun an' heard him out, then told 'im to get lost. They went to Mister Gantry's place next, then to our ranch. Mister Gantry run 'em off an' so did Uncle Cory. They was lookin' for Fox. Said they knew he was in the area an' they'd be back."

"How do you know all this?"

"Uncle Cory sent Jimmy Notch Ear to take my place so I could come an' warn Fox."

"Didja see any badges? Did they have a warrant?"

"No badges, no warrant. Just a whole lotta ugly."

"You coulda told us earlier!" Jess fumed.

"What difference would that a made? Uncle Cory said for all of you to hole up here until him or Mister Gantry sends word it's safe to come in. Why dya think Miz Daisy sent all that stuff?"

########################

_**FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11th…**_

Morning sunlight had not yet penetrated the canyon though it was light enough that every leaf, twig and blade of grass sparkled with a delicate veneer of frost. Jess knelt by the campfire, getting breakfast underway. Slim sat on the slab, nursing a cup of coffee, and Calvin sat cross-legged on the ground at his feet. All three were huddled in heavy coats.

Slim was anxious and in a temper after Jess had passed along Calvin's news of the unwelcome visitors and their objective. In retrospect, maybe he should have kept information to himself.

When Dan and his blanket-swathed patient stumbled into camp, Ruairí slumped to the ground without a word, his back against a tree apart from the group by the campfire. Drawing up his knees, he put his arms around them and his head down. Out of the corner of his eye, Jess saw Slim's face grow hard and set. He could almost feel the icy pall that descended on his partner. Either the doctor wasn't noticing anything amiss or he was ignoring it.

"Morning, all." Joint-stiffened and short of sleep, Doctor Dan was seriously reconsidering his stance on leaving later rather than sooner. Almost two decades of living in white society had stripped him of his native hardiness.

"How are you feeling this morning, Slim? Still wanting to go home today?"

"Have to, Dan. Calvin… you want to repeat your news?"

At the conclusion of the teenager's report, all eyes went to Ruairí, who appeared to have withdrawn to some other plane of existence. By unspoken agreement, leadership defaulted to Slim, who had arisen and now towered threateningly over the other.

"Can you explain what kind of trouble you've brought down on us?"

When no response was forthcoming, Jess feared his partner was going to pick up the smaller man and shake one out of him.

"Answer me!" Slim demanded with a harshness that earned him a puzzled glance from Jess.

_Ain't like Slim to bully a man too sick or hurt to fight back_. _He must still be messed up in the head…_ _or he's so worried about Daisy an' Mike an' the ranch he ain't thinkin' straight._ He was about to voice his thoughts when Dan beat him to it.

########################

_**Dan intervenes…**_

"Slim… if I might be permitted a medical opinion. This man is suffering migraine headache. It's a common aftereffect of a malarial episode. At the moment he's not capable of thinking clearly much less answering any questions. Pretty much the same condition you were in only a few days ago. So could you kindly back the hell off the inquisition for awhile?"

Jess's heart caught in his throat. _No one talks to Slim like that and gets away with it._ Plus, he was confused by the doctor's apparent shift in attitude towards Ruairí from offensive to defensive. _Dan's right…_ _but Slim's gotta know I got his back no matter what._

Doctor Dan's bedside manner reasserted itself with a conciliatory tone as he gestured away from the campsite. "Walk with me, Slim. I'll explain everything." Behind Slim, Jess was shaking his head negatively, mouthing _'no'_ and making the universal gesture for silence with a forefinger across his throat.

"Whatever you have to say, you can say right here," Slim growled, planting his feet. "And hurry it up. We don't have all day."

Dan faltered, knowing the information he was about to impart would only exacerbate Slim's bad mood. In all other respects a fair-minded individual despite his inflexibility on matters of law and order, Slim Sherman was widely known to be intransigent on matters of honor and duty to country. Now or later, there'd be hell to pay when Ruairí Conor's transgressions were revealed. Though the subject was within earshot, the doctor had no way of gauging how much he was able to comprehend. And what did it matter if he did? Slim was standing fast so he might as well get it out.

"Ruairí Conor's a criminal, Slim… member of a gang responsible for hundreds of deaths."

"What? How do you mean, Dan?"

"You've heard of the Fenian Brotherhood—insurgents and terrorists?"

Slim frowned. "Read about 'em. Always stirring up trouble back East. Frankly, Irish independence is the least of our concerns."

"Maybe. But get this—during the war they were blockade runners and smugglers turned pirate."

Slim stared down at the huddled lump practically at his feet, about as distant from the image of 'pirate' as a man could get. "You're saying this man's a traitor? Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack. He was in with the Connacht gang involved in that sea battle off the coast of Maine in the summer of '62. You may recall having heard about it at the time. There was an almighty big stink in the newspapers about how they were operating right under the noses of army intelligence. A lot of officers lost rank over that incident."

Slim turned on Jess. "You knew about this?" A pink tinge crept into his cheeks and the veins at his temples were pulsating.

"I was gonna tell you…" Jess hedged. "Just ain't had the…"

Slim's face hardened into a mask of revulsion. "Were you planning on bringing him home with us, knowing how I feel about his kind?"

"We ain't got around to discussin' that yet, Slim… I was waitin' for…"

"Waiting for what, Jess? A sign from God that I'd even consider harboring a _traitor_ under my roof? It wasn't enough your aiding and abetting an _army deserter_ in my own home? Or wanted men behind my back? Just because you thought you owed them something?"

All of which Jess had done over the years, no denying. And every instance had produced the cold, measured disgust he was witnessing right now. While he hated having Slim angry with him, his innate sense of fair play demanded rebuttal.

"Now you wait just a doggone minute… far's I know he ain't studyin' on goin' anywhere with us. Says he's settled in here an' intends to stay… but if he's sick like Dan says he is, we can't leave 'im on his own. He needs lookin' after… just like you needed lookin' after."

"I'll see him hanged first… right here, right now," Slim snarled. "Or shot, for that matter. I'll be happy to do it myself."

"Ain't gonna be no lynchin'… or shootin'," Jess asserted defiantly, thoroughly alarmed at his partner's manic behavior. This wasn't the Slim he knew. This was some out-of-control bloodthirsty creature unleashed by Doctor Dan's premature disclosure.

Even Dan flinched, having anticipated anger but not virulence on this scale. "Think about this, Slim… you've never been one to espouse vigilante justice. Why dirty your hands now? Wouldn't you get more satisfaction out of a trial? Remember, there's no statute of limitations on treason. Why not make a citizen's arrest and turn him in to the nearest authority, which would be Sheriff Corey. Let him worry about notifying the federal authorities."

For a moment Jess thought that Dan's practical advice had exorcised the vengeful demon possessing his partner. The high color left Slim's face and he visibly relaxed. Even his menacing tone of voice moderated. But his grim words, spoken coldly and deliberately directed at Jess, dashed any such hope.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11:_** TIME TO DEPART**

_**"****To argue with a person who has renounced the use of reason  
is like administering medicine to the dead."**__ • __Thomas Paine_

_**The intransigence of Slim Sherman…**_

"Did you not understand what I just said? I don't want that bastard on _my_ property, dead _or_ alive. You can join him if that's what you want."

Jess stared back, unwilling to accept what he was hearing, trying to ignore the knot of disbelief forming in his belly. "You don't mean that, Slim." _He don't know what he's sayin'. He won't even remember sayin' it… just like he seems to've forgot I'm a partner in that ranch, not just some hired hand what ain't got a say._

"An even better idea," Slim continued, "is let those men looking for him know where they can find him. Most likely they're government agents anyway."

"Don't think so, Mister Slim," Calvin disagreed. "Like I told Mister Jess, we didn't see no badges. Them men are outlaws. They threatened Uncle Cory. Said if he didn't turn Fox over to them, they was gonna come back and burn us out."

"They only said that because we're Indians, Cal," Dan scoffed. "And because they know they'd get away with it if they did." He looked around at his white companions, defying them to contradict him. Neither of them did… because what he said was true and they all knew it.

"Nuh. They said the same thing to Mister Gantry an' he don't even know Fox. He called 'em hooligans. He sent one a his men to your place, Mister Slim, an' another one to town to make a complaint to the sheriff."

"I really don't care what they are—legitimate or otherwise, or whatever their reasons are. They're welcome to do whatever they want with him. As long as they stay off my ranch and leave me and mine alone."

Jess shook his head. "I have a feelin' they'll be back, Slim. We might hafta fort up an' defend ourselves."

"Not if we give them what they want. Once they have him they'll be on their way and out of our hair. It's as simple as that."

"Ruairí ain't no stray dog, Slim," Jess pleaded against his better judgment. "He's a human bein'. He's got a right to tell his side, don't he? He can probably tell us who they are an' what they want… when he feels better, that is."

"He has no rights and I don't want to hear his side," Slim said flatly.

"Well, I _do_. An' if our partnership—our _friendship_—means anythin' to you…" Jess didn't bother to finish the sentence, seeing Slim wasn't listening. _I did unforgivable things, too… yet you forgave 'em. Can't you meet me halfway on this? Why is this even important to me an' why can't I keep my mouth shut about it?_

Dan cleared his throat. "Speaking as a physician, I can't go against my oath to leave an ill man in the wilderness to die alone if there's a possibility I can save his life."

"Whose side are you on, Dan?"

"In this instance, my patient's. I'm sorry. How about a compromise? We take him along back to your ranch. You can lock him up in your bunkhouse until you can get word to Corey. You've done it before. However, I have to say it's likely to be awhile before he can be moved."

"How long's 'awhile'?" Slim's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Longer than overnight?"

"The frustrating aspect of malaria is that, after the initial infection, it can lie dormant for weeks or months, even years before it flares up. The good news is that intervals between recurrences will be longer and the attacks milder as the body builds up immunity. The bad news is that when these relapses occur, they typically last eight to ten days. And they come in cycles—every other day, or every third or fourth day, depending on whatever strain he's got. Since this was the first episode of a periodic relapse, I have no way of knowing if the next one will occur tomorrow or the day after that… or the day after that. He doesn't remember how it went the last time."

Slim scowled. "Thanks a whole bunch for the impromptu medical lecture, Dan, but what's that got to do with anything?"

"I expect the next cycle will occur while he's in your custody."

"That's assuming I agree to take him back to the ranch with us. And that'll be just for one night. Next morning he goes to jail."

"Slim… pay attention. I'm trying to get you to understand… he's going to be very sick and _someone_ will have to tend him."

"I don't want Daisy involved."

"She doesn't have to be. Jess can do it." Dan threw in a diversion, addressing Jess. "Do you have any quinine at home?"

"How should I know?"

"I'll have Calvin bring you some, or bring it myself if I can. Tell Missus Cooper it's recurring malaria. She'll know what to do. In the meantime, get Young Doc out as soon as you can to see to Slim. And keep Conor out of sight until Mort can come get him."

"I haven't agreed to any of this…" Slim started to object. "If he's gonna be this much trouble, I say go ahead and shoot him… or leave him behind."

Jess challenged Slim's authority with as much bravado as he could muster. "We don't have time for this right now. We gotta decide what we're gonna do an' how soon we're gonna do it. And the first thing we gotta do is eat breakfast."

Surprisingly, Slim offered no objection.

########################

_**Debating departure logistics…**_

The four sat in a circle on the ground, not speaking as they ate beans and the last of the pork.

Earlier, Calvin had offered to take food and coffee over to Ruairí but was cautioned against it by the doctor. "He can't keep anything down right now. My advice to you is stand clear and leave him be."

Jess launched the conversation as Slim was being sullenly silent.

"Slim an' me have a ranch to run an' family to protect, Dan. Can't do that from here. No question, we _hafta_ start for home soon's we can get packed up. But you an' Ruairí an' Cal don't hafta go right away. Let's talk about that."

"I disagree," Dan said. "We all need to leave at the same time. We can't stay hidden forever and Cal says there's no back way out of these two canyons. If anyone tracks us here, we're sitting ducks."

Calvin, too, had an observation. "We got supplies for maybe three, four days at most. But there ain't enough grass left for the stock. We'd hafta to move to another canyon, anyway."

"In my opinion, Jess," Dan said, "you and Slim should head for the nearest junction with the stage road and ride out in the open. It'll be easier on him and anyone watching your place won't take notice. Calvin and I can take Conor and the mules to Cory's ranch by the back trails, sneak in after dark."

"If we stick together, we got a better chance of outgunnin' anyone comes after us," Jess pointed out.

Dan snorted. "How do you figure that? You're the only gunhand we've got. Slim's out of commission. I couldn't hit the side of a barn with a handful of rice. Conor doesn't have the strength to chamber a peashooter. To my knowledge Cal's never been in a firefight. No, our best bet is evasion. Once we're back in our respective compounds, we'll have all the firepower we need to hold off any intruders."

"I been thinking," Calvin hesitantly ventured at the conclusion of the meal. "Fox musta been tracked from Wind River, so they know he's probably bein' hid out here by other Indians. An' the only place near Laramie with a native community is our ranch. If those men're watchin' anybody, it's us. They ain't got no reason to be watchin' a relay station."

"Why are you even talking about fighting with these people?" Slim snapped, the first he'd spoken since they'd sat down. "I already told you, it's not going to come to that."

"Let the boy talk," Dan warned. "Go on, Cal. If you have an idea, let's hear it."

"Well, they're lookin' for a red-headed man on a leopard-spot Appaloosa. Man's got a hat on, it's pretty hard to tell the color of his hair. An' one solid brown horse looks like any other brown horse. What if Fox an' Slim an' Jess ride together on the stage road? Nothin' unusual about three traders headin' west from Cheyenne with two pack mules. Fox an' me can swap out horses, then me an' Dan'll do like he said… go in after dark."

"Best plan I've heard yet," Jess said. "Slim?"

Slim reluctantly agreed. "Can we make it home before nightfall?"

Jess and Dan exchanged a glance, obviously thinking the same thought… _Well… encouraging to hear he _can_ be reasonable._

"If we start packin' right now, we can maybe get halfway there," Jess said. "Don't expect we'll be able to do it in one go. You an' Ruairí ain't gonna be able to ride all day an' it'll be pushin' the animals too hard."

Obviously not what Slim wanted to hear but he knew Jess was right. "Let's do it, then."

Doctor Dan breathed a sigh of relief. _At least he still has some common sense._ Holding up a hand, he stated flatly, "Before we adjourn, I want it clearly understood all of the foregoing is being undertaken against medical advice. Slim's and Conor's respective conditions require many more days of recuperation before either is reasonably fit to ride for any length of time." What he really wanted to say was... _Frankly, Slim's out of his gourd and who knows how long it'll take to get back to himself?_

"So noted," Slim grunted. "But we're going anyway."

########################

_**Breaking camp…**_

Although it wasn't possible to obliterate all traces of their presence, the campers did a respectable job of cleaning up after themselves and burying any waste. By the time the horses were saddled and the mules loaded, Ruairí had slowly come out of his fugue and turned unexpectedly belligerent if still shaky.

"Get your hands off me. I'm not going," he protested as Dan and Jess hoisted him to his feet. Calvin was right about the hair. Scrunched up on top of his head with Calvin's hat jammed down over it, the color wasn't that noticeable.

Exuding contempt, Slim poked him in the chest with a finger. "You're coming with us, one way or another, and staying with us until the sheriff can come out and take you off our hands. _You _are what ranchers refer to as an attractive nuisance. If those men are convinced you're around here someplace, they won't just up and go away. And, if the prize is important enough, they might be tempted to go through one of us or our people to get to you."

Slim didn't seem to realize that this was a contradiction of his earlier commandments, that he couldn't have it three ways—turning Ruairí over to his pursuers… _and_ keeping him alive but under citizen's arrest… _and _leaving him behind.

"Oh… so now I'm your _prisoner?_" Ruairí spat.

Jess tried to spread butter on the harshness of Slim's harangue. "That ain't what he means at all. We wanna keep you safe."

"I was safe enough before I pulled his ungrateful ass out of that mudhole. Leave me here and go away."

"C'mon, Ruairí," Jess wheedled. "You ain't in no shape to take care a yourself nohow."

"The worst's over. Leave me alone."

"No chance of that, traitor," Slim said. "You're going to jail and then you're gonna hang."

########################

_**Between a rock**_ _**and a hard place...**_

Jess's moral codes were taking a beating. First of all, he never understood the mentality of exerting extraordinary efforts to keep a man alive only so he could be executed later. And how was Ruairí going to get a fair trial after all this time? Especially if no one was willing to hear his side, which he couldn't tell unless he returned to civilization. Were there any eyewitnesses to be found, back East?

Jess recalled all too vividly his own fear, rage and despair at finding himself with a noose around his neck—all because of another man's hearsay. No eyewitness could be found to attest to either his guilt or innocence of the crime of which he'd been accused. He'd cheated death many times, but on that one occasion it had been due to the actions of one man—just one man he didn't even know. Doctor Dan wasn't an eyewitness, either. His account was nothing more than hearsay as well.

Was Jess destined to be that one man who saved Ruairí's life? Was he prepared to make sacrifices to accomplish that?

Why was Slim so willing to accept the accusation as gospel, so determined to persecute this one individual? What association produced such a profound reaction to the word 'traitor'? Jess understood, in a roundabout way, that Slim's fury wasn't personally directed at Ruairí, but at what he represented. Was it something in one of the lockboxes of Slim's wartime memories?

Jess knew full well his priority was to escort Slim safely back to the ranch, but he was finding Slim's attitude offensive. And he had no idea what to do about it.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12:_** NO PLACE LIKE HOME**

_**"****The most important trip you may take in life  
**__**is meeting people halfway." **__ • __Henry Boye_

_**Homeward bound…**_

Having hunted this backcountry with his father since boyhood, Slim assured his partner he knew the shortest way down to the stage road. Shorter it may have been but it still took four hours to get there, Jess worrying the whole time how Slim would manage one-handed. Alamo wasn't the most biddable horse on the ranch and occasionally took a notion to act up. However, he so far was proving unusually docile, as though understanding his rider was handicapped.

Once they were on the relatively flat, straight road, Slim dropped back from point position to walk abreast of Jess on Traveller with the mules in tow, leaving Ruairí to move ahead out of earshot. Up to that point there'd been no conversation between the partners other than a few terse instructions from Slim. Maintaining a stony silence, Ruairí' hadn't spoken a word since they set out.

"Don't say anything about this to Daisy. It'll just upset her," Slim said.

"What part am I not 'sposed to tell?" Jess answered sarcastically. "Why you're wantin' to hang a man what saved your life… or why I ain't good enough no more to share your roof?"

"What bullshit's this? I never said anything about you leaving home."

"You did an' I got witnesses who heard you say it."

Slim drew a blank. "Can we talk about this later? Privately?"

"It's been a long time since I thought of ridin' out. A real long time, Slim. Until today."

"Promise me you won't do anything until we've talked about it."

"I'll think on it. But I ain't makin' no promises." Jess could be just as pig-headed as his partner when he had a mind to be… and right then he was.

They had the road to themselves as they plodded onwards with as much speed as Jess could coax out of the mules. The afternoon stage had already gone through and the sun was lowering on the horizon. Ahead lay the spinous processes of a sandstone escarpment that undulated across the landscape like the skeletal remains of some prehistoric creature. Jess recognized the feature from Slim's Corp of Engineers topographic maps of the area. Thirty more miles lay between the point where the road cut though that ridge and home. Turning a critical eye on his two companions he figured he'd be lucky to get another hour out of them. No way could they make it all the way to the ranch tonight.

Jess knew that on the leeward side of the ridge, not too far from the road, was a protected spot with good grass, a grove of stunted cottonwoods and a spring. When he announced they were stopping to make camp, Slim wanted to argue about it even though he was pale and shaky and looked to topple out of the saddle at any moment. Jess ignored him. By the time they got there the sun was kissing the mountaintops. Ruairí wasn't much better off although he'd rallied enough to help unsaddle the horses and unload the mules. He and Slim crawled into their bedrolls and were asleep before Jess could get around to cooking a meal. Tomorrow was going to be an even longer and more tiresome journey with many rest breaks.

########################

_**SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 12th…**_

Twilight was dusting the landscape with purple shadow as the trio topped the rise overlooking the ranch compound. Below, the golden glow of lamplight through windows beckoned them home. With Jess having to do all the reload work by himself, it'd been well after noon before he'd been able to get the show on the road again. He heaved a great sigh of relief at the prospect of climbing down from the saddle. The horses and mules were as exhausted as the riders but not so far gone they couldn't return greetings from the pasture crowd as they rounded the corner into the yard.

At the first whinny, Charlie and Notch hurried out of the barn. Moments later, Daisy and Mike flew out the front door. Jess and Slim dismounted simultaneously, to be enveloped in hugs and endearments and peppered with questions. In the commotion, Jess noticed Ruairí slide off his mount and almost crumple to the ground before the two Indian boys caught him and hustled him off to the bunkhouse. He'd go see about him as soon as he could break free.

Though courageously maintaining a strong front for Daisy's benefit, Slim was flagging. He made no objection to having his good arm yoked over Jess's shoulder. With Jess's firm grip on his belt holding him steady, he allowed himself to be maneuvered in the direction of the house. With Daisy's assistance he made it onto the porch, through the door and to a chair at the dining table.

"Hadn't we ought to get him to bed, Jess?" Daisy inquired. "He doesn't look good at all… and you look worn out yourself. Would you like some coffee? I can have a pot ready in no time."

"Daisy… calm down. Give Slim a chance to catch his breath, okay?" Jess was too tired to remain upset at Slim's hurtful words. He just wouldn't think about them tonight. Tomorrow was another day and they'd have that talk. Work things out.

"Of course, of course… but…"

"Coffee would be mighty welcome, an' anything you can warm up right quick. We ain't et since breakfast."

"We had stew for supper. I can reheat that in just a few minutes."

"Stew would be fine, Daisy," Slim mumbled.

Jess patted him on the shoulder. "Will you be okay for a while on your own? I gotta go help Charlie and Notch."

"Go. Daisy'll look after me."

"Me, too!" Mike piped up. "I can help lots!"

"Sure you can, Tiger," Jess grinned, ruffling the boy's hair. "I won't be gone long."

Daisy's voice came from around the corner. "Jess… that other man who rode in with you? Who is he?"

"Friend of the Lake boys."

"Won't he be hungry, too?"

"Dunno. I'll ask 'im."

########################

_**Home again…**_

Charlie and Notch were already busy with the horses when Jess got to the barn. Charlie Elkhorn was Calvin's older brother and Jimmy Notch Ear was a Lake cousin. Jess didn't know these two as well as Calvin, other than they were sober, industrious, hardworking youths. Rather than interrupt their care of the horses, Jess turned his attention to unloading the mules.

"Thanks for takin' such good care of our home an' our people, boys. We really 'preciate it."

"Glad to help out, Mister Jess," Charlie, who was closest, answered shyly.

"Slim'd come tell you hisself but he ain't feelin' too well right now."

"Mister Sherman gonna be alright?"

"Yeah. It'll be a few weeks 'til his broke arm heals. Just so's you know, he got knocked in the head pretty hard, too. Ain't quite his usual self yet."

"Cory said for us to stay long as you need us, Mister Jess," Notch said.

"That would be a real big help. I'm grateful. Calvin an' Doctor Dan went back to your ranch but I 'spect we'll be seein' one or t'other of 'em in a few days."

"Fox stayin' here, too?" Charlie asked.

"For a little while, maybe. When we're done here I'll go look in on 'im."

"He's already sleepin', Mister Jess," Notch offered.

"He needs to eat somethin'. He ain't et since yesterday, that I know of," Jess said.

"I asked him was he hungry an' he said no, just real tired an' needed to be quiet," Charlie put in.

"I guess I won't bother 'im then. But… hey, listen… if he gets sick during the night, one a you come an' get me, hear?"

"Yessir."

The packsaddles were sorted and their contents stacked by the door. The horses and mules were fed and turned out to pasture. The barn was closed down for the night. The Indian boys headed for their bunks and Jess retreated to the house. Slim and Mike had gone to bed but Daisy was waiting up with fresh coffee and his supper in the warming oven. He hadn't realized how ravenous he was until the bowl of savory stew was placed before him along with a plate of biscuits. Daisy kept him company while he ate. In between mouthfuls he recounted the eventful week… a condensed version anyway. Afterwards the longing for his pillow must have been evident in his face as Daisy interrupted his narrative to shoo him off to bed.

"You can tell me the rest of it tomorrow, dear."

"But I already tole you all there is to tell," Jess protested.

"I rather doubt that… but we'll discuss it tomorrow. Now go."

########################

_**SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 13th…**_

Jess jerked awake from a nightmare, heart pounding and in a cold sweat. _Clad in hospital garb, he was seated bareback on a spotted horse. His hands were bound behind him and there was a noose around his neck. Standing off to the side was a tall, forbidding figure in a Union officer's blue uniform, pistol raised in the air, preparing to give the signal. The officer was Slim…_

Seconds that seemed like endless minutes passed before Jess's heart rate slowed and his muscles relaxed enough to allow him to sit up. Nightmares were old experiences, although he hadn't suffered one this disturbing in years—since before his time here. But this one was a completely new and frightening scenario, featuring Slim in an adversarial role. Even as Jess sat there, trying to pull himself together, the dream receded into the mist.

A glance at the curtained window shocked him into movement. It was full daylight. He should have been up and dressed and attending to chores hours ago. Why hadn't someone—Slim or Daisy—awakened him? And then he realized where he was and why... and that the ambient noise in the room was Slim's muffled snoring in the adjacent bed. Hard on that were sounds of activity beyond the closed door of the bedroom, and the aroma of frying bacon.

It was good to be home.

The moment of elation crashed and burned as the memory of his contretemps with Slim reared its ugly head. Jess dreaded the confrontation to come. What could they say to each other that could negate words spoken in anger? In the past, Jess had been just as guilty as Slim of mouthing off at the height of one of their frequent altercations, which more often than not culminated in Jess threatening to leave or actually doing so. As the years had gone by, however, they'd found less and less to argue about—these days, hardly anything. Which was why Slim's display of obstinacy and rage was such a bolt out of the blue. Worst of all, every one of Jess's insecurities about his place in this world had been reincarnated. If only Dan had kept his counsel, this wouldn't have happened. On the other hand, Jess reflected, this unhappy situation was equally his own fault. Whatever had possessed him to risk everything he held dear by choosing to defend a stranger who, according to Slim _and_ the doctor, wasn't worth a plugged nickel?

########################

_**Coffee with Daisy…**_

Donning his undershirt, trousers and boots, Jess reminded himself of what he hadn't quite agreed to—keeping his and Slim's current argument from Daisy. Skirting the foot of Slim's bed, he opened the door and went out to meet the morning with a concerted attempt at a smile on his face.

Daisy was at her usual post at the stove. Mike was sitting at the kitchen table. Jess greeted them and slid behind Daisy to get a coffee cup from the overhead rack. When he lifted his arm, she wrinkled her nose, sniffing loudly.

"Someone needs a bath in the worst way!"

"Somebody ain't been near hot water in two weeks." Jess poured himself a cup of coffee and shuffled back to the table.

"Slim don't smell so good, neither," Mike contributed cheerfully, pushing the creamer jug and sugar bowl toward Jess. "Aunt Daisy already got the tub started in the washroom for Slim when he wakes up. I'm in charge of fillin' it up. One more bucket a hot water oughta do it, Aunt Daisy."

"Very good, Mike. Thank you. Jess… is Slim still sound asleep?"

"Yup. Sawin' logs."

"Then you get first dibs on the tub. Off you go. Take your coffee with you."

"What? Wait! I don't get breakfast first?"

"Not until you've bathed and shaved."

"Can't it wait until after chores?"

"Do you know what time it is?" Daisy scolded. "Jimmy and Charlie have already done _all_ the chores, brought in the milk and eggs _and_ had their breakfast. They're in the corral making ready for the ten o'clock stage."

"You musta doctored my coffee last night, too," Jess accused. "I never sleep this late!"

"I wouldn't admit it if I had. Now quit procrastinating and get back there. Heavens! You look like the Wild Man of Borneo."

Jess ran a hand over his week's worth of stubble and grinned. "I reckon I do at that." Scraping back his chair, he tousled Mike's hair. "I'll get that last bucket, Tiger."

It wasn't until he was submerged to his neck in hot, soapy water that Jess gave a thought to Ruairí, realizing Daisy would _have_ to be provided an explanation of his continued presence. Mike, too. He might have overlooked the third rider last night, but his childish inquisitiveness would sniff out that stranger in their midst faster than a hound after a pork chop.

There wasn't any way to keep Ruairí a secret, especially since those vigilantes or whatever they were had been by with their inquiries after a redheaded fugitive. He had to emerge from the bunkhouse _some_ time… to visit the outhouse if for no other reason. One glimpse and Daisy would make the obvious connection, would insist on meeting the man. This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, knowing it was practically impossible to slip so much as a hangnail past Nurse Daisy's keen eyes. One look at Ruairí and she'd know instantly he was in need of medical attention, Slim's objections notwithstanding. Not only that, their sort-of-but-not-quite prisoner had to be fed… and food couldn't be smuggled out to the bunkhouse without her noticing.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13:_** DAISY TAKES CHARGE**

_**"****A strong woman looks a challenge in the eye  
and gives it a wink." **__ • __Unattributed_

_**Confession over breakfast…**_

Daisy nodded approvingly upon Jess's return to the kitchen, handing over a plate laden with scrambled eggs and crispy bacon, followed by a bowl of speckled grits adorned with a knob of butter… prepared especially for him because no one else would touch the stuff.

Jess should have suspicioned something was up when Daisy hovered over him, sweetly inquiring if everything was to his satisfaction, did he need refills, was there anything else she could get for him. He should have questioned Mike's hanging around the kitchen long after he'd eaten when usually he was outdoors like a shot. And he certainly should have taken notice when, after whisking away the last empty bowl, Daisy seated herself across from him, daintily folding her hands together under her chin and batting eyelashes over those cornflower blue eyes. Mike got very, very still. Whenever something interesting was about to be revealed was usually when he was sent away from the room by a grown-up.

Finally, Jess caught on. "What?"

"About that man…"

"Who? What man?"

"The one who arrived last night with you and Slim and spent the night in our bunkhouse."

"I… we… he's just visitin' here… there… for a day. Or two. Maybe three?"

"He's the one those men were looking for, isn't he?"

"Don't know that for sure…" Jess hedged.

"I spotted him through the window an hour or so ago, coming back from the outhouse. The hair rather gives it away, doesn't it?"

_Busted,_ Jess thought.

"Friend of the Lake boys, is he?"

"Yeah. Somethin' like that." Jess felt the perspiration forming at his hairline.

"Well, then… why don't you go out there and fetch him, Jess? As he missed not only supper last night but breakfast with Charlie and Jimmy, I imagine he would enjoy a cup of coffee and a hot meal as well. It's quite chilly this morning."

Jess choked as the grits threatened to make a bid for freedom, a length ahead of the scrambled eggs. "Uh… Daisy… not a good idea."

"Why not, pray tell?"

"Well… it's just that… he ain't exactly a guest. Slim don't want him in the house… or near you."

"Not a guest, but who is going to go hungry for several days? I don't think so." Daisy had that glint in her eye that signified defiance and determination as she regally arose from her chair.

"Look, Daisy. This ain't my idea. I can't explain it but Slim's mad enough at me already. You fix a plate, I'll be happy to take it out to the bunkhouse… but I can't let you go out there. He'll kill me for sure." A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck.

"And just how do you propose to stop me?" The question fairly dripped with honey.

Jess gulped. "I reckon I ain't got the first clue, Daisy."

Daisy reseated herself with great deliberation after ceremoniously refilling both their cups with fresh coffee.

"I think perhaps you didn't tell me _everything_ last night, did you?"

"No, ma'am."

"But now you're going to, aren't you?" It wasn't a request.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mike, you run along outside now."

"Aw! Aunt Daisy! Do I gotta?"

########################

_**Daisy extracts the rest of the story…**_

Jess kept expecting Slim to walk in on them at any moment but they remained undisturbed as he went over the week that was in as much detail as he could recall. Whenever Daisy sensed Jess was trying to fudge on something in a charming but unnecessary attempt to spare her sensibilities, she made him go over it until he either 'remembered' or 'fessed up.

When the ten o'clock stage clattered into the yard on time, he tried to escape, citing a need to help Charlie and Notch.

Daisy raised an eyebrow. "Those two have done just fine on their own for a week. Keep talking."

By the time Daisy declared herself satisfied that she'd got the entire story, chapter and verse, Jess was a wrung-out wreck. Still there was no sign of life from the back bedroom.

"You sure he's alright, Daisy?"

"I upped the dosage a tad," the woman admitted. "He needs the rest and it's the only way to slow him down. Let me go check on him right quick, and _then_ you are going to escort me to the bunkhouse to meet your Irish desperado."

Jess moaned in resignation. "You're gonna get me beat to a bloody pulp!"

"Easier to get forgiveness than permission, dear. Besides, we don't have to tell him, do we?"

Daisy returned with the advisory that Slim wasn't yet anywhere near consciousness. "Why, if we're lucky he'll sleep right through the day. Wouldn't that be nice?"

_Not really. He'll be double mad. He won't yell at her but he'll sure 'nough yell at me. Right before he throws me out the door. Or shoots me. Or both. Or he'll shoot Ruairí an' go to prison an' everybody'll say it's my fault for makin' him mad an' they'll hate me. An' just listen at 'er… hummin' like she's gettin' ready to pick wildflowers. I swear, that woman ain't never happier'n when she's got some poor hurt soul to nurse. At least it ain't me this time._

Having hauled out the medicine chest, Daisy took out a brown bottle labeled _Powers & Weightman Sulfate of Quinine,_ which she held up to the light, gauging its contents. "Not much left but it'll do for at least one cycle." A second bottle joined the first: _Dickinson's Extract of Witch Hazel_. "This will come in handy." Setting those aside, she tucked a notebook and pencil into a pocket of her apron, took her coat and shawl from their pegs by the door, and crooked a finger at a very reluctant Jess.

"Shall we?"

########################

_**A visit to the bunkhouse…**_

A blustery wind had come up ahead of towering banks of cumulonimbus clouds. In the lee of the barn, under the forge roof, Charlie Elkhorn and Jimmy Notch Ear were engaged in plucking a pair of decapitated Leghorn cockerels Daisy had earlier marked for supper that evening. Despite their best efforts to contain the feathers in a tub, a blizzard of white pinfeathers swirled in the gusts.

_If they had a lick of sense they'd be doing this in the barn,_ Daisy thought. _Too late now._ She looked around with a worried expression. "I just realized we haven't seen Mike in awhile."

Jess raised his voice to call out to the Lake boys. "Seen Mike anywhere around?"

Notch pointed toward the bunkhouse. "He's okay. In there with Fox."

"Fox? Don't tell me he's brought home another stray!" Daisy exclaimed. "Slim will be livid!"

Jess experienced a heart-stopping moment of _déjà vu_—the day another youngster had invited a two-legged stray into the Sherman household. He made a mad dash around Daisy to get to the door ahead of her, barring the way. He wasn't sure why he did that. Fortunately, Daisy paused, grasping the potential for awkwardness—after all, a female entering unannounced into what was essentially a male's domain could be embarrassing.

Jess rapped on the door before sticking his head in. "Got a visitor wants to meet you, Ruairí." He stepped back, allowing Daisy to enter first.

Man and boy were seated on the one single bed, examining one of the obsidian-tipped arrows. The unstrung bow lay on the mattress behind them. It occurred to Jess that no one had advised Charlie and Notch that Ruairí was supposed to be a prisoner… an _unarmed_ prisoner.

A kettle still steamed on the potbellied stove and a basin of soapy water reposed on the dresser top along with shave gear. A smooth-chinned Ruairí was wearing a pair of denims and a white cotton longjohn shirt he must have borrowed from one of the Indian youths. His freshly washed and still damp coppery mane shimmered in the glow of the overhead lantern. She of the cleanliness-is-next-to-Godliness league was clearly enchanted… and approving. It suddenly occurred to Jess that his most likely ally in the Save Ruairí campaign was going to be Daisy Cooper.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14:_** CHARM AND THE WIDOW**

_**"****There is nothing more dangerous than  
a boy with charm."**__ • __Christina Aguilera_

_**The lady and the pirate…**_

"Ruairí, this is Missus Daisy Cooper. She's chief cook an' bottle washer an' keeps us boys in line," Jess said by way of introduction.

As the petite, silver-haired elderly woman stepped over the threshold, Ruairí immediately stood, fighting the urge to doff a cap he wasn't wearing. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been in the presence of a white lady of quality. More than a year, surely. But his childhood training held fast as he tentatively took the small hand extended to him and bowed over it.

"Ruairí Conor, at your service, ma'am," he murmured, unknowingly having instantly won over the widow from Pennsylvania.

"What a euphonious name," Daisy trilled. "Would you pronounce it again, slowly, so that I get it right?"

"You can say it however you wish, Missus Cooper. Most folks go with 'Rory'."

"I was sayin' it wrong at first," Jess admitted. "But he never told me no different. Doctor Dan told me how to say it right."

"Wasn't important," Ruairí shrugged.

"Of course a man's name is important," Daisy said firmly. "It defines who you are when you enter this world, and what people will remember when you leave it."

Sliding forward the sole chair in the room, Ruairí offered it to Daisy. "The only other seat is the bed, I'm afraid."

"I'll take the bed, thank you." Daisy settled herself next to Mike after removing the arrow, which she inspected with interest. "This is a work of art. Is it real?"

"Yes, ma'am. It is. So is the weapon behind you."

Daisy turned and carefully lifted the end of the bow a few inches. "My goodness, this is heavy! Do you actually hunt with it?"

"Yes, ma'am. I do."_ And I've killed men with it, too._ _Probably shouldn't mention that in front of a lady… or the kid._

Letting down the bow, Daisy shivered and looked up at Jess who'd remained standing, fidgeting. "Could we have a little more heat in here, Jess?"

_More heat? It's already hot enough in here to roast a… oh… I get it… she wants a private confab with Ruairí._

"Sure thing, Daisy." Jess turned to the stove, noting the woodbox was almost depleted. He poked what was left into the firebox, muttering he needed to go outside for more kindling. "Tiger, how about helping me, huh?"

Mike didn't particularly want to leave his newfound friend but Jess's look was more of an order than a request. He slid off the bed and followed Jess out the door.

########################

_**Nurse Daisy gets down to business…**_

Left alone with the chatelaine of the household, Ruairí waited for her to speak. At the least he was expecting an upbraiding for allowing a child to play with a weapon.

"In the normal course of a social encounter such as this," Daisy said primly, "we would engage in polite conversation, getting to know a little about each other and so forth. But we're already beyond that point, it seems. Jess has already imparted all the news that's fit to print… and some that isn't, which is neither here nor there."

"I'm sorry, Missus Cooper. I know I'm not the sort of character you want around your home… or the boy."

"Mister Sherman is going to face considerable opposition to his plans for your future, Ruairí."

"Excuse me?" She'd got the pronunciation spot on and he accorded her points for that, but he wasn't sure of her meaning.

"I've been told many times in my long life that I'm an excellent judge of character. I do not see in you the same ruthless killer as Slim and Doctor Twelvetrees seem to believe you are."

"It's mostly true, what they say."

"Perhaps mostly… but not entirely. I would very much like to hear _your_ story, as would Jess. I've been made aware of Slim's antipathy toward you, and some of the background regarding that. On his behalf I would like to plead diminished capacity due to his head injury. Perhaps when he's fully recovered he can be persuaded to adopt a more reasonable attitude. However…"

"I wouldn't count on that, Missus Cooper," Ruairí softly interjected.

Disregarding the interruption, she continued smoothly. "As I was about to say, let's skip your biography for the time being. I do have to get back to my duties and Slim might awaken at any time. We don't want him to catch us violating his dictum, do we?"

"No ma'am, we sure don't."

"Now then, let's address your most urgent issue and how we're going to manage it." Daisy withdrew her notebook and pencil.

"Ma'am… I'm not sure…"

"Did anyone think to inform you that I am a trained nurse? During the war I became quite familiar with malarial cases and how to treat them. Doctor Dan didn't forward any written notes so I'm going to ask you what are probably the same questions as he did. Just tell me what you told him."

Jess and Mike returned in the middle of Ruairí's accounting of the attacks, their frequency, duration and aftermath while Daisy made appropriate notes. Eventually she looked up at Jess.

"I'd like to explain some aspects of this particular form of affliction, mainly for your benefit as you will have to function as my go-between and possibly my aide. Mike, could I ask you to go back into the house and check if Slim is still sleeping? Can you do that for me, without disturbing him? And could you put some more kindling in the kitchen stove? I'll be in directly to start dinner."

"Yes, ma'am."

"One other thing, Tiger," Jess put on his earnest face and got down on one knee so he could rest his hands on the boy's shoulders. "I'm gonna ask you to keep a secret. Just for a little while, until I can tell Slim myself. He don't need to know about us bein' in here today… so don't say nothin', okay?"

"You mean you want me to tell a lie, Jess?" Mike's eyes were as big as saucers.

"No… no… not lie. Just don't mention it."

"Why?"

Jess should have seen that one coming. "Because… because… it'd hurt his feelin's if he thought we had us a party an' he wasn't invited. I'll say later Daisy wouldn't let me wake 'im up 'cause he's sick. See?"

That explanation seemed to appease the boy and he trotted off without the usual balkiness at being dismissed.

########################

_**Malaria in more than one nutshell…**_

"Thanks a lot, Jess Harper!" Daisy huffed after the door had been she grinned. "Good save, though."

"What was it you wanted me to know, Daisy?"

"Ah… yes. About Ruairí's illness… we don't know what causes malaria, but we do know there's more than one kind. Going by what Ruairí's described, his type is called quartan malaria paroxysm… or the seventy-two-hour fever. He says that, after an inactive period of several months' duration, this came on about midday—three days ago—and began dissipating by morning. Other than the usual aftereffects of lethargy, fatigue and headache, he was able to function well enough to ride all day. Is that correct? I already know how he was feeling… what I want is your observation."

Jess was uncomfortable, commenting on a third person as if he weren't present but Ruairí seemed to take it in stride, gesturing for him to go ahead.

"Well, he looked sick as a dog first thing that mornin' but by noon, when we was gettin' ready to leave…" Here Jess paused, trying to finesse the words that had passed between Slim and Ruairí prior to departure and on the ride home. He'd omitted that part of his earlier recitation.

"Yes? Then what?"

"Slim an' him got into a pissin' contest… oh…'scuse me!" Jess flamed pink at the involuntary indiscretion. "I mean they…"

Daisy rolled her eyes. "No need for vapors, Jess. I gather what you're saying is that Ruairí had recovered enough to stand up to Slim, verbally?"

"Yes, ma'am. They had words. Slim got kinda mouthy an' Ruairí smarted off right back at 'im."

"It's helpful that you've mentioned that. It gives me a time frame to work with. Go on."

"Well, to me he still looked pretty sick 'til we made camp that night. Yesterday he seemed okay—tired, maybe, but better."

"And today's opinion?"

Jess shrugged. "Today he don't look sick at all."

"If I'm right about the quartan fever, what this means is that today will be a good day. No symptoms. But tomorrow—some time in the early afternoon—Ruairí will start feeling chilled. After fifteen minutes, he'll be exhibiting all the symptoms of acute hypothermia, no matter how many blankets you pile on him or how hot the room. This may last an hour or more.

"Following that he'll develop a high fever lasting two to six hours, give or take, which will require the usual treatment as for any other fever. At some time in the evening—say between eight o'clock and midnight—the fever will break abruptly and be replaced by profuse sweating for another two to four hours. By daylight the relapse will be over but he will be utterly exhausted. I'm amazed he was able to walk at all from one camp to the other, not to mention stay in a saddle for hours."

"You don't mind my sayin', Daisy, this sounds like somethin' one a them gypsy fortune-tellers might come up with."

"Jess, the progress of these recurrent episodes is so well-documented a doctor can predict almost to the minute what's going to happen and when. Someone will have to monitor our patient, keep him as comfortable as possible and see he remains adequately hydrated. I expect that someone will be either myself… or you."

"Slim ain't gonna let you…"

"To the extent possible we should respect Slim's wishes as to who may or may not enter his home. However, he can't confine me to the house or order me to do _nothing_. I'm prepared to stay here in the bunkhouse if necessary. And if he won't allow even that, I will drive Ruairí into town myself and take him to Young Doc's clinic."

"Now Daisy…"

"May I say something?" Ruairí interrupted. "I'm going to be sick, no matter where, or whether either of you is around. I've gone through it alone before. I can do it again. You don't need to stay with me."

Daisy was aghast, quivering with indignation. "Alone… with no care? Not on my watch! I won't allow it!"

"Now Daisy…" Jess repeated anxiously. "We got a whole day between now an' then to figger somethin' out. Let's get on back to the house. I'll help you get started on dinner. Maybe Slim'll be in a better mood. Maybe…"

"You're right. And you're right about dinner, too." She arose then, taking Jess's offered hand but addressing Ruairí who'd also stood up respectfully.

"I meant to ask you if you've had anything to eat or drink since yesterday… you must be famished."

"The boys brought some coffee and biscuits out to me when you weren't looking. I'm good."

"Not good enough," Daisy sniffed. "I'll see to it you get proper meals."

"Thanks. I'll appreciate that."

"You look very tired. You should rest as much as possible. If memory serves, it's possible you may suffer one more episode after tomorrow's and then will require a week's recovery period."

"Very likely."

"Tomorrow you'd best have only a light breakfast and forego the midday meal…"

Jess nudged her out the door. "Ruairí… just shut up an' go take a nap or I'll never get 'er outta here." He pulled the door shut behind them, to the sound of laughing.

_What's so funny, knowin' what's gonna happen to you tomorrow?_


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15:_** WORTH FIGHTING FOR**

_**"****Life is an end in itself, and the only question as to whether it is worth living  
is whether you have had enough of it."**__ • __Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr._

_**An accident waiting to happen…**_

A housecat backing down a mountain lion—that was the image Jess conjured up at the sight of diminutive Daisy standing up to the man more than a foot taller than herself. Apparently, Slim had just dragged himself out of bed and into a deserted kitchen. Just as obvious, he was in no better frame of mind than he'd been the previous afternoon.

"Where've you two been?" he snarled, having caught sight of the two bottles of medicine and the open medical chest on the table and correctly deducing why they were there.

"Pardon me?" If Daisy hadn't already had her feathers ruffled, she might have forgiven him his ill-tempered address. As it was, she was primed for a counteroffensive. "Are you talking to _me? _For shame! Your mother must be spinning in her grave."

"And YOU…" Slim turned his ire on Jess. "YOU told her! You took her out there, after I forbade you…"

"Don't you dare shout at him, Matthew Sherman," Daisy shouted right back. "I made him go with me. He tried to stop me. What in the world has got into you, acting this way?"

"When I give an order I expect…"

"When you _what?_" Daisy fought to control her voice. Something was terribly wrong with Slim. She advanced close enough to poke him in the chest and did. "Since when do you _order_ me to do _anything_ in that tone of voice?"

"It's MY house!" he bellowed.

Being a few paces behind Daisy, Jess had naturally hesitated when crossing the threshold from the side porch into the kitchen. He'd halted altogether when Daisy and Slim got into it—a novel spectacle in this household. Slim was tottering precariously, his face flushed and two hectic spots of red staining his cheeks. His hair stuck up on end like a bottlebrush. The man behind those demented glazed eyes was windmilling that splinted arm dangerously close to Daisy's head.

No way would Slim ever harm Daisy, Jess knew, but a man not in his right mind was capable of anything, especially not paying attention. Accidents happened and Jess wasn't about to let one happen to her. With his protective instinct overriding all other considerations, he leaped forward to pull her away and get between them. Perceiving this as an assault, the stranger inhabiting Slim's body swung his right arm with full force. The slats of the splint connected with Jess's left temple, knocking him back out the open door onto the side porch. Daisy screamed out of sheer fright. Slim screamed in pain at the jolt to his already damaged arm. Bursting out from the hallway where he'd been hiding, Mike screamed because everyone else was. Jess made no sound at all. He was out cold.

Charlie and Notch came flying across the yard just in time to view Daisy snatching up a broom and Mike fastening himself to Slim's leg, hollering "Stop, stop, stop!" The commotion had drawn Ruairí out of his lair as well. Standing over Jess's unconscious body, the Indian boys were in a quandary. They'd been specifically instructed to let no harm come to Missus Cooper or young Mike, but did this extend to subduing—or attempting to subdue—Mister Sherman, who appeared to be suffering some sort of fit? It seemed sensible to defer to the only other adult white male present and in full possession of his faculties.

"Don't look at me," Ruairí said as they both looked to him for direction. "Ain't my rain dance."

"One of you _do_ something!" Daisy appealed from behind her self-defense weapon of choice, though there was no need for further alarm. Slim had stopped moving as a mask of confusion settled over his face. And then he fainted, nearly squashing the boy as he sank to the floor. Daisy gasped. Mike squalled. Jess started coming around, muttering "what the… what the…"

Ruairí rolled his eyes as Notch and Charlie held up their palms in twin gestures of desperation.

########################

_**Hours later…**_

Hauling Slim's inert body back to his bed had required the combined efforts of Ruairí, the two Indians, and Jess—once he'd been able to get to his feet. Having quickly found some other place to be, Notch and Charlie were relieved to be keeping their distance from the house of crazy white people.

Recovering from her fright, Daisy ascertained that Slim had descended into normal sleep after whatever hallucinatory state he'd been in had evaporated. Taking his vitals and judging it safe to leave him unattended, she flew into a frenzy of activity: organizing a slapdash meal of ham and cheese sandwiches, fashioning an ice pack for Jess's poor abused face, writing notes to be entrusted to Mose or whoever else happened to be driving the stage that afternoon on its return run from Cheyenne to Laramie.

Meanwhile, Mike had taken Ruairí down the hall to show off his bedroom and their unique indoor bathroom. None of their neighbors had anything like it, the boy proudly proclaimed.

"Aunt Daisy makes me have a bath almost every day, even when I ain't dirty," Mike complained.

Ruairí chuckled, looking down into the boy's earnest face. "Just you? Not Slim and Jess?"

"Them, too. Sometimes. An' they're _always_ dirty. You gonna live here? She'll make you get a bath, too."

"Is that a fact?"

Coming back into the kitchen, Ruairí commented, "Nice facility you got back there. Last time I enjoyed a real tub was probably last year sometime, in San Francisco. Was kind of surprised to see this one. My experience is you Westerners aren't all that keen on personal hygiene. No disrespect intended, ma'am."

Jess wasn't sure if he should regard that as an insult or merely an observation. He decided to let it go. And, of course, that put a bee in Daisy's bonnet though—granted—the young man wasn't nearly as scruffy and odoriferous as Slim and Jess had been. Ruairí accepted with pleasure Daisy's proposal that he avail himself of a hot bath while Slim remained _hors de combat_, so to speak.

With the situation more or less under control, Daisy took herself off for a much-needed restorative lie-down. Under duress, Mike was banished to his room for a nap as well.

########################

_**Friends and family…**_

Ruairí and Jess were taking their ease over coffee at the kitchen table—the former with a degree of wariness although the latter reasoned that if Slim _did_ happen to walk in on them, the house was technically one-third his. So there.

Three sealed envelopes lay between them on the tabletop, addressed to 'Young Doc', 'Lychee McNutt' and 'Sheriff Mort'. Jess held the compress aside to test if the swelling had gone down enough to permit vision in his left eye. It hadn't.

Ruairí whistled in appreciation. "That's gotta be the granddaddy of all shiners. Does that happen a lot around here?"

"Once in a while. That weren't Slim you seen today. I mean, it was but it weren't. When we was back in the bedroom Daisy said that happens sometimes with a concussion. You think someone's gettin' better an' then they up an' get a loco spell. Says she's gonna have a word with Doctor Dan about lettin' 'im ride too soon when he shoulda been restin' his brain some more."

Ruairí eyed the envelopes with interest. " 'Doc' and 'sheriff' are self-explanatory, but who's this 'Lychee' fellow? Is he Chinese?"

"Matter a fact, he is," Jess said. "Half Chinee, anyway. Family lawyer."

"And just because you summon these people, they come from… how far is it from town?"

"Twelve miles, an' yeah… they come soon's they can get away."

"Must be nice having important people in your pocket," Ruairí murmured.

Jess glowered. "They ain't in nobody's pocket. They come 'cause they been friends a the family for years—way before my time here. And 'cause they all respect Slim Sherman. He's the most honest man I ever met."

"I wouldn't dream of casting aspersions on his honor," Ruairí said dryly. "Looks like I might be relocating to your jail as soon as tomorrow, then, if the sheriff comes out right away."

Jess's eyebrows shot up in consternation. "Not if Daisy has anythin' to say about it… and believe me, she will. Mainly if you're gonna be as sick as she says. She'll fight for you like a sow bear protectin' her cub."

Ruairí laughed then. "It's been a long time since anyone thought I was worth fighting for. You have a strange family, Jess."

Jess had to stop and think about that. _Are we strange? Not your normal blood-kin family, so yes to that. But are they mine? Week ago I woulda said yes, no two ways about it. Today, not so sure._

########################

_**Pride and cowardice…**_

"You know we ain't none of us blood-related, right?" Jess queried.

"I know. Cory told me. You sure do fight like family, though."

"You got any folks?"

"No. Not anymore. None that'll claim me, anyway."

"So, you get sent back East for trial, won't nobody be in your corner?"

"Not a soul."

"I don't get it. All you gotta do is go someplace where nobody knows who y'are an' change your name. You'd be a free man."

"Why didn't _you?_"

"Why didn't I what?"

"Change your name. Pretend to be someone else so you could live out your days in peace and quiet… and anonymity."

Jess _really_ had to think about that. "Like Daisy said… your name's all you got. Was all I had when I lit here… that an' a reputation I thought I could just put away along with the guns. Didn't work out like that, though. Men kept comin' around, lookin' to beat it."

"But you could've changed your name," Ruairí repeated.

"Not an' stayed here. Too many folks knew who I was an' what I useta to be. Word gets around. I made a lot a enemies an' every now an' again one finds me."

"I imagine turning the other cheek doesn't work out too well, either."

"Nope. Sure don't."

"How do you deal with that?"

"The usual way. I reckon that'll keep on until the last man with a grudge against me is in the ground—or I am."

"Cory told me that even though you've been out of the business for almost five years, you still manage to get yourself shot up a lot. Everyone wonders how you're still alive."

"I wonder about that myself. Useta wonder would there ever come a time when I weren't scared about it—about dyin'. About that bullet what's gonna be faster than mine."

"And here I am assuming having a reputation as a gunslinger means having nerves of steel," Ruairí joked.

Jess shrugged. "What it means is pushin' that fear to the back of your mind, not that you ain't never scared. You just can't let on, is all…or back away… 'cause then they brand you a coward."

"And that's the worst thing that could happen to a man? Worse than death?"

"Whadda _you_ think?"

"I'm not who I used to be, either. That man and everything he was raised to believe in died twelve years ago… when all those things happened that Dan told you about. I ran and kept on running. That makes me a coward in addition to everything else the Slims of this world loathe. The difference between you and me is that I've managed to escape the burden of a reputation for a very long time. I should've expected it would catch up with me eventually."

"Why're you tellin' me this?"

"Don't know. I suppose because you're listening? And maybe because I thought you might understand?"

"I'd kinda like to hear your side, Ruairí. Believe me, I know what it's like to be hated."

"Some other time."

########################

_**Mose comes and goes…**_

A gloomy silence descended on the pair, matching the gray sky outdoors where a chilly drizzle had begun falling. A distant rumbling resolved itself into the arrival of the four o'clock stage.

Jumping up with a guilty start, Jess was reminded that, number one, he couldn't see well enough to help with the relay teams. And number two, Notch and Charlie didn't need his assistance. What did need doing right away was coffee for any passengers. There was an almost full pot on the stove that'd been stewing for hours and was probably the consistency of roofing tar. It would have to do. And there was Ruairí… who was supposed to be kept out of sight.

"Quick… hide back there," Jess hissed, pointing to the hall at the back of the kitchen that led past Mike's room to the washroom. "If Mose sees you, by nightfall half the territory'll know you're here." He practically shoved Ruairí into the hallway and shut the door just as the garrulous old driver stumped through the front kitchen door.

"Hey Jess… how they hangin', boy? 'Bout time you an' Slim got back. Any luck findin' them mares?" Mose was used to helping himself to coffee and did so before looking directly at Jess. "Whooeeee! That's some mouse ya got yerself! Walk inta a door or sumpin?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that, Mose. You doin' okay? No passengers today?"

The old man snorted. "Four furriners what're too high-falutin' ta step out inna rain. Tole 'em it were last chance fer coffee an' outhouse but they ain't budgin'. Say they's on a mission. Cain't half unnerstan' 'em but it sounds like they lookin' fer their lost king er somethin'. You ever heerd a such nonsense? 'Spectin' ta find a king roamin' aroun' these here parts! Hmmmph!"

Jess couldn't have got a word in edgewise even if he'd tried, but that was Mose for you.

"Well… nice talkin' atcher. Gotta get back onna road. Gonna be late gettin' into town what with the rain an' all…"

"Wait… almost forgot…" Jess snatched up the envelopes and thrust them at the driver. "Daisy asked can you get these to where they need to go… tonight, if possible."

Beaming at the mere mention of the object of his affection, Mose tucked them into an inside vest pocket. " 'Course I will. Anythin' fer Miss Daisy. Where is she, an' Slim by the way?"

"They ain't feelin' too good today. Somethin' they et, I reckon. I'll tell 'em you was askin' after 'em."

"You do that, son. See ya tomorrer mornin' if the crick don't rise." Mose slurped a last mouthful of coffee and ambled out the door.

Without giving another thought to the odd complement of stage travelers on the hunt for mislaid royalty, Jess closed the front door, hollering, "You can come out now."


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16:_** COUNTRY CAPTAIN**

_**"****If you can't give me a party and have Country Captain,  
meet me at the train with a bucket of it"**__ •__General George Patton_

_**An offer she can't refuse…**_

The clattering of the departing stage was accompanied by a flurry of footsteps as Daisy burst out of her bedroom and across the parlor. "Good heavenly days! Why didn't you wake me, Jess?" she fussed. "Just as well… I wouldn't have wanted anyone to see me looking like the wreck of the Hesperus. Were there no passengers? I heard only Mose's voice."

"They didn't wanna come in. It's rainin'."

"Oh dear. Well, their loss." Daisy lifted the lid on the coffee pot and recoiled. "Or not. This is disgusting! And will you look at the time! Where are those chickens? I should have started supper hours ago!"

"Hangin' right outside the door… I'll get 'em for you." With his temporarily skewed field of vision, Jess crashed into a chair and almost fell over before Ruairí intercepted him.

"You'd better sit back down before you hurt yourself. I'll get the birds, Missus Cooper."

"Oh… thank you. I wanted to roast them but it would take too long," Daisy sighed. "I'll suppose I'll have to cut them up so they'll cook faster."

With a dressed, plucked chicken in each hand, Ruairí was inspired to make a bold suggestion. "It would be a privilege to prepare a meal for you, Missus Cooper, if you would allow me."

"Pardon me? Surely you're not serious?"

"Oh, but I am. I'm a pretty good cook, if I say so myself. Just ask the one-eyed jack over there."

"Very funny… ha ha." Jess sniffed, reapplying the now soggy compress to his face. Though somewhat dubious of Ruairí's culinary skills in a real kitchen, Jess had to admit the man's campfire creations were pretty dadgummed good. "Was I you I'd take 'im up on that offer, Daisy. You won't get another 'un like that in a hunnert years."

"You know what? I just think I will!" No one else had cooked in her kitchen since last spring, when Slim and Jess had been obliged to pitch in to help feed a multitude of unexpected guests trapped at the ranch during a blizzard. She sat at the table catty-corner from Jess and clasped her hands in anticipation.

"Were you planning anything in particular, ma'am… or do you want to go with potluck?"

"Surprise me," Daisy declared. "And please, it's 'Daisy', not Missus Cooper. That's so starchy. The root cellar's through that door and there's a lantern right inside, on a hook on your left."

Mike had been following the exchange, wide-eyed, from his perch on the chair on Jess's other side.

"I can show ya where everything is, an' I can help carry stuff up. I can help cook, too. Aunt Daisy's been teachin' me."

"Has she now? I sure would appreciate the assistance, Mike."

As the light bobbed down the stairs, Jess cricked his neck around so that he could see Daisy's bemused face with his good eye. "You sure this's a good idea?"

"Why not? Is there a possibility he might accidentally poison us?"

"No. But there's a possibility Slim might accidentally kill 'im."

"You let me worry about Slim," Daisy stated with confidence.

"Wisht I could," Jess muttered.

Presently, the evening's guest executive chef and his miniature sous-chef ascended from the bowels of the house with their selections in baskets. Ruairí borrowed two bandannas from Jess—one for himself and one for Mike—which he fashioned into headbands to keep their hair away from the food. From Daisy he requisitioned a white bib apron, and pinned a towel around Mike's neck in an approximation of a proper chef's apron. With the stove stoked up and ready to go, Ruairí set to work dismembering and deboning the poultry while Mike was assigned the task of scraping carrots and cubing them along with onions. Two plump cloves of garlic awaited pressing.

Daisy had fetched her knitting from the parlor and set up camp at the table. "You don't mind my watching you work, do you?"

"Not at all, if you don't mind me ignoring you."

########################

_**An unusual meal…**_

With visions of being shanghai'd into peeling potatoes or some other unwelcome chore, Jess elected to make himself scarce. The swelling had subsided enough to reveal a sliver of blue iris, but he was still having trouble gauging distances. "I'll just go check on the barn… make sure the boys don't need no help." Drawing on a rain slicker, he smacked into the doorframe on his way out.

Towel-dried, dipped in beaten egg and rolled in flour, the chicken pieces were soon browning in melted lard in Daisy's biggest skillet… one she rarely used because it was so heavy and hard for her to manage. From her vantage point she could just about make out some of the other ingredients waiting on the work counter and couldn't imagine what her flame-haired substitute cook intended to do with them. Canned stewed tomatoes? Raisins and dried currants? Dried green peppers? Hazelnuts? Pickled sweet peppers? Rice was rice, of course. Slim wasn't partial to it but Jess liked it. It was all she could do to hold her tongue.

One large stockpot was bubbling away with bones and trimmings. Turning the chicken to brown on the other side, Ruairí then investigated the spice collection in the corner breakfront. After acquiring by mail order an international cookbook, Daisy had accumulated quite an eclectic assortment of items not usually found in the average ranch wife's larder—including ginger, coriander, paprika, cumin and chili, all of which Ruairí took down. Breaking his concentration, he gave the meal monitor a thumbs-up. "This is going to be better than I expected," he grinned, wielding a can opener.

"Time to put it together, Mike. Starting with the tomatoes, we're going to put everything in this bowl and mix in the spices. I'll tell you how much and you choose the right measuring spoon, okay? Then we'll pour it over the chicken, put a lid on it and let it simmer."

Mike was brimming with importance. Still issuing soft, unhurried instructions to the boy, Ruairí strained the chicken stock into a Dutch oven, stirred in the rice and covered it.

"Take a break, partner. Now we wait for the rice to cook. Set your apron aside. If you have something you need to do, do it now. Don't forget to wash your hands when you're done."

"Okay." Mike trotted away cheerfully.

########################

_**Fatalism versus optimism…**_

"You wouldn't happen to have any wine or brandy, would you?" Ruairí asked. "Just need a half cup for flavor. The alcohol will have burned off before it's done."

Daisy didn't drop a stitch. "Under the sink, top shelf… behind the medical kit."

"A woman after my own heart! If only I were free to marry…"

"You're married?" Daisy blinked.

"Oh no… no. It's just that pretty soon I won't be free."

"I wish you'd stop being so fatalistic."

Ruairí turned a chair around and straddled it, facing Daisy. Accustomed as she was to her boys' extraordinary good looks, she couldn't help but compare Ruairí's unique visage. A slightly overshot upper jaw with a mouth too wide for such a narrow face. A smile that created deep creases in gaunt cheeks and accentuated sharp cheekbones. Not unattractive but certainly not in Slim's and Jess's league. He couldn't be much past thirty.

"Every society has its own version of destiny," he said. "The Spanish have an old adage, _'Lo que será, sera'_… 'that which will be, will be'. Seems like it's past time to meet mine."

"Perhaps not. The note Slim asked me to send on his behalf…?"

"Oh, yeah. Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief… or, in this case, sheriff…"

"He asked only for Sheriff Corey. The other two are my idea. I've asked Young Doc—that's Doctor Whatleigh—to come tomorrow."

"I don't need a doctor."

"Not for you. For Slim. I believe he's experiencing post-concussion syndrome. His aggressive behavior today was completely out of character. I've seen this before, in hospital during the war. Symptoms can last for a few days… or weeks… or months. If Young Doc can mitigate them, and I'm sure he can, you may not have to go anywhere for some time."

"What about the sheriff and the lawyer?"

"Sheriff Corey is aware of the theft of the horses and Slim's injury. He was informed of that rough gang that visited us and our neighbors but knows nothing of you… yet. Slim didn't specifically request that Mort Corey come out _tomorrow,_ although I'm sure that's what he intended. I'm afraid I resorted to a bit of chicanery in suggesting it might be better if he waited until _next week_ to visit, when Slim is… um… rested."

"What's the lawyer for?"

"Counselor McNutt is uniquely qualified to explore the legalities concerning your status. Slim has great confidence in his abilities and recommendations. If anyone can persuade Slim to adopt a more rational attitude, it will be Lychee. And Mort, of course. Both are eminently sensible individuals. Which isn't to say Slim isn't… oh dear. I'd better stop talking."

Ruairí was silent for such a long time Daisy wondered what was going through his mind.

"At the risk of appearing rude and unappreciative, why are you going to all this trouble, Miss Daisy?"

_Why indeed? Is it maternal instinct? Is my subconscious speaking for all mothers of sons lost in that stupid, senseless war? Will saving the life of one young man lessen the pain of my own son's death? No. Can this one's sins be expiated? I don't know. We call ourselves Christians yet we tend to overlook the simplest of prayers…. 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us'. _ Daisy was spared having to formulate a response by Mike's return to the kitchen.

"Is it time to eat yet? I'm hungry!"

########################

_**Daisy gets her way… again…**_

"This sure is good!" Jess was on his third helping, one ahead of the other four males at the table. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

"Here and there," Ruairí evaded.

"I neglected to ask you the name of this dish," Daisy commented. "I want the receipt."

"It's called 'Country Captain'. It's an Indian dish that made its way here courtesy of the British. Very popular in Savannah and the Carolina low country."

Notch and Charlie glanced at each other. _Indian?_ Their mothers had never served anything like this in _their _teepees!

Daisy's ears perked up. "Hold on… I've seen that name somewhere before." Leaving the table, she went to the breakfront and ticked through her treasury of cookbooks, extracting a worn volume entitled 'Miss Leslie's New Cookery Book'. Triumphantly bearing it back to the table, she flipped through the pages and there it was, on page 299.

"My husband gave me this book on our anniversary in 1858. It had just been published and he knew I wanted a copy. Somehow I never got around to trying this receipt."

Ruairí hadn't planned on eating with the family, but Daisy—having looked in on Slim—had reported that he wouldn't be joining them for supper. "He's too nauseated to eat and just wants to sleep. I'll take him some toast and broth later."

"Been a while since I've had a real meal at a real table under a solid roof… or slept in a real bed," Ruairí remarked. "Takes some getting used to."

"I've been thinking…" Daisy ventured. From the expression on her face, Jess knew trouble was on the way.

"Daisy… no. Just no. Slim won't stand for it."

"He will when _you_ explain to him that it won't do for a fragile elderly woman such as myself to be traipsing back and forth from here to the bunkhouse, tending to a sick man. It's wet out there… and cold. Why, I might catch my death!"

"Yeah, well… ain't gonna be _you_ doin' the traipsin'. Gonna be _me_. You said so yourself."

"I've changed my mind. Just look at him. Can't you see the man is in dire straits? Anemia, jaundice… why, he's so weak he can barely hold a fork!"

Everyone turned to stare at Ruairí, on his second helping with a forkful of chicken poised at his open mouth. "I am?"

"Of course you are. You'll be needing stringent nursing care in the next few days, as will Slim. I can't be in two places at once and Jess will be far too busy with ranch business."

"I will?" Jess croaked through a mouthful of rice.

"Mike… you wouldn't mind sharing your room for a night or two, would you?"

"You mean with Ruairí? Gee, that'd be swell!"

_Ain't no arguin' with Daisy once she got the wind up,_ Jess was thinking. _Slim's gonna shoot me dead._

########################

_**An unusual meal…**_

Notch and Charlie offered their assistance in washing up but were chivvied off to the bunkhouse by Daisy, who was in turn turfed out of the kitchen by Jess and Ruairí. Mike whined to be allowed to stay up just a little longer, sensing interesting and informative adult conversation might be in the offing, but Daisy was adamant.

"Bath and then bed, young man," she sang out as she marched him down the hallway.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Ruairí said as he and Jess stood side by side at the sink. "People will talk. Wash or dry?"

"Dry. You really sick as she makes out?" Jess asked, "I mean, after yesterday morning I didn't think you'd make it all the way here. Today you seem, well… okay."

"That's the nature of the disease, Jess."

"What's it like, havin' one a them spells?"

"Usually starts with feeling cold. I can be outside in the hot sun, then suddenly it's like there's ice water running through my veins and I start shaking. When the fever comes, all my muscles and joints ache and my back hurts. I'm down by then, can't get comfortable. I feel like I'm on fire and my head's gonna explode. Most times I pass out. Can't walk, can't talk. When it breaks and I start sweating, it's like I've been run over in a stampede. Light hurts my eyes. I can't even think. All I want to do is sleep. The day after, I can barely function and still have a splitting headache. That's how it was the other morning when we left the canyon. Sometimes, depending on what I've eaten before it hits me, there's vomiting and… you know… worse."

"What could be…? Oh… yeah..." Jess contemplated, for a few appalled moments, the ugly reality of 'worse'.

Ruairí continued, almost dreamily as he gazed through the window over the sink into the now dark side yard. "Then there's always the thought, _this might be it. This might be the one that gets me._"

"I know that feelin'. Coupla times—sick or shot up—thought I was a goner. Don't mind sayin' I was scared, too. Ain't you, when it happens?"

"Always. And I don't even have the worst kind of malaria—the kind that _does_ kill right away. However, it's possible to have more than one kind at the same time. Then you might as well kiss your ass goodbye 'cause you're heading for the check-out desk."

"Ain't no upside to this, is there?"

"Sure there is. Once I get over this one, it might be six to eight months before there's another. Or I might have a fatal seizure before they can get around to hanging me."

Jess flinched. "You have fits? I seen men die with 'em. Back when... when I was in prison camp, during the war, I mean. What if you have one this time, Ruairí?"

"If you mean convulsions, I don't know that I ever have. At least, I don't remember it and no one who was with me ever said I did. And if I do, it's not likely to be fatal. I'm in much better physical condition than your average prisoner of war. Don't worry about it."

_It ain't you I'm worried about,_ Jess was thinking, _it's Daisy and how she's gonna be able to handle it if it happens._


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17:_** THE DOCTOR AND THE OUTLAW**

_**"****Problems cannot be solved by the same level  
of thinking that created them."**__ • __Albert Einstein_

_**MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 14**__**th**__**…**_

Doctor Fred 'Young Doc" Whatleigh rolled in fifteen minutes prior to the arrival of the ten o'clock coach to Cheyenne. Jess came out of the corral where he'd been attempting to help Notch and Charlie ready the fresh team. He held Fancy's head while the outsized physician extricated himself from the Amish rig designed for passengers half his bulk.

"Morning' Doc. Been a while since you paid us a visit."

"And wonder of wonders… for once it isn't to pick lead out of your…" He caught sight of Jess's magnificent black, purple and green eye. "Good Lord! What've you done to yourself this time?"

"Slim socked me a good 'un yesterday."

"You don't say? Thought _he_ was ailing and that's why I was summoned. Can't be too sick or he wouldn't have been able to land a punch like that."

"Daisy'll tell you about it while I pull the rig over to the shade an' unhitch the mare. I'll be right in."

"If you don't mind, I'd rather you didn't come in just yet. We'll talk later, not where Slim can hear. I'll have a look at that eye, too."

"It's okay. I can even see a little out of it today."

Young Doc fished his black bag out of the cargo compartment and stalked toward the house. Daisy met him at the door, reminding him to duck when entering. Slim was sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in his customary denims and work shirt, blonde hair still damp from the bath Daisy had insisted on right after his solitary breakfast. She'd blithely mentioned that 'everyone else' had eaten earlier and was out and about attending to chores. Slim didn't need to know who was included in 'everyone else'. Except for the right arm now sporting a soggy wrapping, he appeared at ease and not in need of Young Doc's services.

Setting his case on the floor, the doctor deposited himself in one of the chairs. Daisy tried to ignore the groan and squeal of stressed joints as she brought coffee to the table. A Sherman family friend for many years, Fred Whatleigh had a routine for weaseling information out of patients who didn't want to give it up… especially patients like Slim and Jess.

Even though they all kept up to date with one another through correspondence, social encounters and the community grapevine, it was customary to observe the niceties. Young Doc and Slim exchanged the usual greetings, with Slim inquiring into the health of Young Doc's Chinese wife, Pearl, and their children, and that of his sister, Sally, who used to be Slim's girlfriend but had married someone else and moved to the Sandwich Islands. Young Doc asked after Slim's brother Andy and Daisy's predecessor, Jebediah Jones, who had married the doctor's Aunt Emmaline Giancomo. Jonesy and Emma had accompanied Andy to his prep school in St. Louis, where they all lived in the home of Jonesy's daughter Alice and his four granddaughters.

"Andy's doing well. Turned eighteen back in May and just started his freshman year at Washington University."

"Sally and Kim've adopted four more children—that makes fourteen—and built a bigger house. We all have open invitations to visit."

"Jonesy's seeing a new kind of doctor called an 'osteopath'. Claims his sacroiliac is just about cured."

"Doc Jaimie and I finalized our partnership agreement. Next week we break ground for the new clinic—Whatleigh & McPheeters."

"The Pennsylvania cousins are planning to come out here again next summer during school break. We'll have to add on another bedroom…"

And so on… until they'd worked their way through all the friends and family they had in common. Daisy rolled her eyes.

########################

_**A doctor and patient at odds…**_

"Now that we've got that out of the way, let's talk about you. Heard indirectly from Twelvetrees about your busted wing. Why don't I have a look at that first? I see you got the splint wet so I'm going to have to replace it anyway."

Young Doc carefully cut away the flour-sack-shirt bandage and removed the makeshift bark splints. The skin underneath was mottled, with heavy bruising at the break site. He palpated the arm as gently as possible. "Feels like a simple fracture. The bone's where it needs to be. Can you flex your fingers? Elbow?"

Slim winced a little but was able to satisfy the doctor that the injury wasn't too serious. "Am I gonna need a plaster cast?"

"Oh, I believe you can get by with splints if you promise to take it easy for the next three weeks and not use that arm."

"Too much work to do around here," Slim grumbled.

"I mean it. Three weeks. In a sling. If I have to restraighten the bone and apply a cast, it'll hurt like hell and you'll be out of commission for another four weeks. Now, let's talk about your head while I rewrap this arm." Young Doc laid out new bindings and replacement whalebone splints.

"Nothing wrong with my head. A slight headache and my right eye's a little blurry. Other than that…"

"According to Daisy you've experienced dizziness and nausea in the past twenty-four hours…"

"All gone… I swear!"

"… and some other manifestations of post-concussion syndrome that are of concern."

"Like what?" Slim demanded. "Dan couldn't find any cracks in my skull. Took me a few days to get over it but I did and was able to ride home."

"Uh huh. Why don't you tell about what happened? Exactly as you remember."

"Already explained it to Dan. Why do I have to tell it again?"

Young Doc raised an eyebrow. Irritability was one of the signs he was expecting. "I'm here and he's not. Humor me." Though he couldn't treat the arm and take notes at the same time, he was blessed with concise recall. He intended to get with Daisy and Jess later and compare Slim's version to theirs, which would enable him to identify at what points Slim's memory lapses were occurring, and the periods of agitation. Daisy's hastily scribbled message had provided enough information as to what he was likely to encounter.

Slim's narrative faltered when he got to the part about meeting the man who rescued him. He furrowed his brow in concentration. "He had red hair. He was there for a while and then he went away when Dan came. Dan knew him, said he was an outlaw… a war criminal? Then he came back. I remember talking to Jess about how we had to turn him in and Jess didn't want to do it. We had an argument… I think."

"What day was that, Slim?"

"Yesterday. We were riding back and I was feeling really sick. Went to bed soon as we got home. Felt fine when I got up this morning. Slept a little later than usual."

Young Doc could feel Daisy's eyes on the back of his neck. Slim had lost two whole days… and an entire person.

"Slim… what's this outlaw's name?"

"It's… it's… I can't remember. Why can't I remember?"

"Where is he right now?"

"I don't know."

Young Doc sat down across from Slim and gestured to Daisy to be seated between them. "I'm going to explain something to you about your condition and I want you to pay close attention. When you hit your head, you sustained a cerebral contusion. Basically, that's just a bruise to the brain which, in this case, caused a short-term memory loss."

"I have amnesia?"

"No… nothing that severe. I don't want you to be alarmed… this isn't permanent and it should resolve itself within a week or two. But you need to rest your brain, same as any other part of your body that needs inactivity in order to heal. I want you to stay in the house, sitting or lying down, sleeping if you can. No bright lights, as little noise as possible. No disturbances. No emotional upsets. Reading probably isn't a good idea but maybe you can have someone read to you. Daisy… you're in charge of enforcing these conditions. Think you can handle it?"

Daisy's face had gone pale and her throat dry, but she nodded hesitantly and Young Doc caught it. "How about you get Slim settled in the parlor while I go out and see Jess for a few minutes. I'm afraid that mare of mine might be pulling up lame and I'd like him to take a look."

########################

_**Comparing anecdotal evidence…**_

Jess's account matched Slim's for the most part and filled in the missing pieces… including the identity of the 'outlaw' who'd got Slim wound up in the first place and the reason for his acrimony. Young Doc had already heard from various sources about the outsiders poking around in search of a 'wanted' individual.

"It were like the devil took holt of 'im an' he turned into a whole different person, Doc," Jess lamented.

"So Slim's aware the man saved him, but is still determined to see him brought to justice?"

"That's about the size of it. I ain't never seen him that het up… 'cept maybe when my no-good brother-in-law, the army deserter, wanted help runnin' away to Canada. Slim don't cotton to deserters, no matter what the reason. He refused to give us the map we needed, or any supplies."

"_We?_ Don't believe I've heard this story before, Jess."

"I didn't wanna help him, either… but I figured I owed it to my sister Francie. Lyin' bastard said he was meetin' her other side a the border. Then I found out she was already dead, or thought to be."

"Did he make it?" Receiving a look that clearly meant _figure it out for yourself_, Young Doc hastily returned to the subject at hand.

"Where's this mysterious red-headed pirate at the present time? If Slim sees him it might jog his memory too soon and upset him all over again. We don't want that."

Jess's facial contortions were worthy of a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He literally squirmed. "We kinda got us a problem here, Doc. See, we brung Ruairí home with us an' got 'im hid out in the bunkhouse. Slim was aimin' to turn 'im over to Mort Corey an' notify the federal police they got a traitor to pick up."

"And you disagree with that?" Young Doc lifted his eyebrows at this revelation of yet another memory lapse on Slim's part.

"It ain't that cut an' dried. I ain't sayin' Doctor Dan's a liar, but all we know is what he _said_ what happened twelve years ago. Ruairí ain't told _his_ side yet an' I'd kinda like to hear it."

Young Doc raised an eyebrow. "It's certainly not like Slim to render judgment based on hearsay."

"That's what I'm sayin', Doc. Slim's a better man than that. Even after he found out what I was, he coulda turned me in for the reward money, but he didn't."

"Weren't those warrants on you expired?"

"Yeah… but Slim didn't know that then. He heard me out… an' he give me a second chance."

Young Doc swiped his brow in exasperation. "So your man's in the bunkhouse?"

"You wanna go see 'im?"

"Not at the moment. Listen, Slim doesn't remember anything about yesterday. He certainly doesn't remember taking a swing at you. If he does, it might have an adverse effect on him when I need him to be quiet. But if he doesn't and asks how you got that black eye, could you make up some story?"

"I 'spose I could, yeah."

"I don't suppose you could manage to avoid him for the next few days, go visit someone or something?"

"No. Can't. Gotta help Daisy. Didja bring the quinine like she asked?"

"I did."

"Just don't mention it in front a Slim or he'll be rememberin' something else."


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18:_** ALTERED STATES**

_**"****Research is to see what everybody else has seen  
and to think what nobody else has thought."**__ • __Albert Szent_

_**A meeting of confederates…**_

Young Doc returned to the kitchen via the side door to find Daisy gearing up for dinner.

"You will stay, won't you? We're having baked macaroni and cheese casserole with ham."

"Twist my arm!" Young Doc dropped his voice to a whisper. "Slim still in the parlor?"

"Why are you whispering?" Daisy whispered back. "And yes… either dozing or pouting. If you expect me to keep _him_ quiet for a whole week I'm going to need a gallon keg of laudanum."

"I need to talk with you privately, but remind me to discuss cannabis oil as an alternative. We don't need an addiction problem on top of everything else."

"We can step outside for a few moments without him noticing. Wait…" Daisy poked her head around the corner into the parlor for a recce. "Yes. It's safe. Let me put this in the oven."

The previous day's mud had almost completely dried out thanks to frigid gusts sweeping out of the northwest. Obliged to raise his voice and wishing to spare Daisy the cold, Young Doc pointed to the bunkhouse. "Let's go in there…"

Daisy hesitated before agreeing. Doctor and patient were going to meet anyway. Might as well be now. Together they hurried across the side yard. Just as the doctor reached for the door, it opened from the inside and a startled Jess jumped backwards. Towing Daisy by the hand, Young Doc barged in without preamble and came to an abrupt halt. Mike and a stranger with a mass of red waves were seated cross-legged on the single bed with a checkerboard between them. Mike immediately scrambled off the bed. Ruairí took a little more time unfolding himself, uncertainty written on his face. He looked to Jess for guidance. Daisy was too engaged in catching her breath to lead off the introductions.

Being the naturally affable creature that he was, Young Doc held out a massive paw. "I'm Doctor Wilfred Whatleigh. You can call me Young Doc. You must be that fearsome desperado I've heard about."

Ruairí nervously returned the handshake. "Ruairí Conor, sir… more like afraid and desperate."

"Well now. Daisy and I were looking for a private conversation, but it's just as well you two are here." Young Doc then addressed Mike. "I wonder if you could do me a real big favor?"

"What's that, sir?"

"We've left Slim alone in the house and that wasn't very nice of us. He's not feeling very well and might need some help. Do you think you could look after him for a while, just until we come back in, in case he wakes up? We won't be here long."

"Yes, sir. I can do that."

Jess finally spoke up. "And Tiger… remember what we talked about the other day? That still goes for now."

"You mean pretendin' I don't know about Ruairí?" Mike grinned up at the doctor. "Me and Aunt Daisy played a good trick on Slim. Ruairí got to sleep over in my room last night but we snuck him outta the house before Slim waked up!"

Young Doc allowed that was a pretty good trick, all right, chuckling as the boy slid out the door. In the meantime, Jess dragged out two ancient, dusty footlockers from underneath the bunks on the other side of the small room. He spread his bandanna on one, creating a clean space for Daisy to sit. The other one groaned ominously when the doctor sat on it.

"First I'll tell you about Slim and why you have to be kept away from him. Then we'll talk about you."

########################

_**Keeping secrets…**_

Slim joined everyone else at the table for dinner, afterwards admitting to a need for a nap. Notch and Charlie had been forewarned to not say anything about 'the prisoner'. Mike had been reminded as well.

In the interest of not puking on his caregiver later, Ruairí had forgone both breakfast and dinner, remaining out of sight in the bunkhouse.

Young Doc asked that the noise level around the homestead be kept down, so Jess announced he was taking Mike and the Indian boys fishing for a few hours after dinner. Daisy fussed that that it was too cold but finally gave in after extracting promises that all four would bundle up properly.

Young Doc volunteered to help with the washing up. "Might as well count me in for supper and breakfast as well, Daisy. I'll stay the night, if it's not too great an inconvenience."

"Of course not." Daisy meant it, too, thinking of the many times Young Doc had staunchly stayed by his critically-injured patient—usually Jess—in this house. "Are you that worried about Slim?"

"Not at all. It's the other one I'm more interested in. As you might have heard, I cut short my residency at Queen's Hospital in Honolulu in order to come back here and take over my father's practice when he passed away. While I was in the islands I toyed with the idea of specializing in tropical diseases. God knows there were plenty to choose from. One thing I never had the leisure to observe is the progression of a malarial episode from start to finish. This is my first opportunity to chart every moment."

"Of what use will that be here?" Daisy asked.

"Don't get me wrong… I'm satisfied with being a general practitioner, but I'd jump at a chance to be on the team that discovers what causes these diseases… and how to cure them." Noting Daisy's doubtful expression, he added, "I know what you're thinking. Don't worry. I'm fully aware Ruairí's not a lab specimen to be impartially studied. After you left the bunkhouse, I asked his permission to take notes and ask what he's feeling at successive stages. He agreed. He also stated he didn't mind if you wished to be present at any point, that if either of us learned anything helpful in caring for a future patient, then he will have served some useful purpose."

"That just makes me sad, Fred… to be so young and so hopeless. To think that Jess used to feel that way also."

"_Used to feel?_ My dear lady… you're deluding yourself if you believe a few years of relative stability can offset a lifetime of deprivation and disappointment. There will always be a well of anxiety beneath the surface. As much as Jess looks up to Slim, is loyal to him, the wrong words or actions at the wrong time could knock him right out of his comfort zone."

"Is that what happened yesterday, Fred? They've had disagreements in the past, I know. And I've heard there've been occasions when Jess has gone away because of that. But yesterday Slim attacked Jess not just verbally but physically. Jess has been broody ever since. Hardly spoke at breakfast or dinner. I'm getting the feeling whatever Slim might have said him to him these past few days has hurt him worse than the black eye."

"I know it has. But we can't blame Slim. He's not himself. Anyone who knows him would know that. When someone's mental processes and social filters have been disarranged by trauma, he's liable to overreact to something he'd normally be able to approach in a rational manner. Obviously, something that Slim endured or encountered during the war is responsible for this overwhelming urge to set things right. We may never find out what that something is. He and Jess rarely disclose any of their wartime experiences… or their periods of readjustment to the civilian world. Slim was forced to take up family responsibilities sooner than he might have otherwise. Jess had no such constraints."

"I don't understand why Jess is letting this get under his skin so deeply."

"Well, Daisy… as you should know from your nursing days, another aspect of mental disorder—as in the throes of delirium—is that a patient is liable to blurt out innermost feelings he or she would otherwise never dream of saying out loud. A wise companion would know not to take hurtful words to heart. Jess isn't always that wise."

"What can we do, Fred?"

"Not a damned thing, Daisy. I wish I had a cure-all for heartache. In any case, I believe I'll have a siesta on the parlor sofa. You'll wake me when it's time, I trust?"

########################

_**Later, back in the bunkhouse…**_

Young Doc surveyed his immediate staging area, judging it complete. He'd borrowed one of the front porch rockers and toted it to the bunkhouse. A small fire burned in the stove and the woodbox was full. Two upturned molasses kegs and a wide plank served as a work table, on which he'd positioned a reflector lamp that would provide adequate reading and writing light without shining in his patient's eyes. Notebooks, sharpened pencils and a pocketwatch were at the ready as were a stack of towels, washcloths, extra blankets and a bucket of water. Chunks of ice reposed in an enamel basin with a pitcher of cold willowbark tea nearby. Next to that were drinking glasses, a measuring spoon, a brown glass jar of powdered quinine and another of laudanum. A thermometer and stethoscope completed the array. Daisy had indicated she and Jess would alternate checking in regularly.

The only element not in readiness was the patient himself, although he was garbed in a pair of summer-weight cotton longjohns borrowed from Jess. At Young Doc's suggestion, he'd composed himself on his back with his hands clasped across his belly and was trying, unsuccessfully, to achieve a state of relaxation.

"I feel like a cross between a zoological exhibit and a laboratory rat," Ruairí murmured. "Nothing's happening. Maybe nothing will."

"Try not to think about it. Talk about something else. Tell me about yourself. No. Don't look at me. Close your eyes if that helps."

"What do you want to know? The reasons Slim Sherman has it in for me?"

"Anything but that. I have no wish to be the beneficiary of that sort of bias. Tell me, for instance, how you came to be in the Philippines. There must be an interesting tale behind that. But as soon as you start feeling the chills, say so. I want a chronological record as well as an observational one."

"Don't know it's all that interesting," Ruairí said. "I was crewman on a coastal trader hauling a load of copra out of Papua, New Guinea. The day after we pulled into Manila, a typhoon hit Luzon. Every boat in the harbor was either damaged or sunk. We were stuck there for weeks before replacement parts could be brought in or repairs made. The natives couldn't help us any—homes and stores destroyed, no food coming in. No clean drinking water once the rains stopped. We sailors were sleeping on the ground under whatever shelters we could rig up, right along with their displaced families. I counted myself lucky that all I got was the malaria when people all around me were dying of…"

Ruairí's voice trailed off and stopped. Young Doc leaned forward. "Tell me what you're feeling. Where's it starting?" he asked softly.

"My hands are tingling…"

Young Doc made his first notation—the hour and minute of Ruairí Conor's descent into eighteen hours of hell.


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19:_** A CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE**

_**"****This is how betrayal starts… not with big lies,  
but with small secrets." **__ • Shalini Joshi_

_**Prevarication for the best of reasons…**_

The first of what would eventually evolve into a network of little white lies concerned Jess's black eye, which Slim'd immediately questioned as soon as they'd gathered for dinner:

"Stepped on a rake an' it flew up an' hit me in the face."

Slim just shook his head and snickered at Jess's clumsiness. As to Young Doc's continuing presence earlier:

"I'm driving out to Cory's place tomorrow to check on Missus Lake. She's due to pop any minute now. No sense in me driving all the way back to town when I'm already halfway there. Mose can drop off a note to my wife on his return trip."

_Yes, that was logical._ When informed by Daisy that Notch and Charlie would be temporarily quartered in Mike room, Slim made no objection.

"The boys will fix the leaks in the bunkhouse roof as soon as they can, but they're quite busy at the moment, as you can imagine," Daisy fibbed with a straight face and fingers crossed under the table.

_Well, yes… of course they were, with himself being indisposed._ But what was up with Mike? Fidgeting as if he had ants in his pants, twice drawing reprimands from Daisy to behave during the meal. Was he unhappy about moving into Jess' and Slim's room for a few days? He'd often done so in the past without complaint:

"No, Slim. I don't mind. But Aunt Daisy says I have to be extra special quiet an' I don't know if I can. I can't help it, sometimes."

Slim assured the boy that his presence in the bedroom didn't pose a problem. At one point, Slim put down his fork and looked around, puzzled. "Aren't we missing someone? Seems like… I don't know… there should be… other people?"

Daisy shot Jess an anxious glance before turning wide eyes on Slim, blinking rapidly. "I believe we're all accounted for, dear."

"Maybe you're thinkin' a Doctor Dan?" Jess offered with studied earnestness. "Him an' Calvin went on home after we left the canyon."

"Yeah. Maybe you're right." Slim went back to shoveling in macaroni and cheese with gusto.

########################

_**Cinnamon rolls…**_

After too short a rest, Slim moved aimlessly from kitchen to parlor to bedroom and back again, restless as a caged lion. Daisy had to time her covert activities to coincide with his periodic catnaps. She was running out of excuses as to where Jess, Mike or Young Doc might be found at any given moment and the strain was wearing on her nerves.

"How about if I just sit on the porch?"

"No."

He had the front door open before she could intervene. "Hey… one of the rockers is missing…"

"Fred took it out to the barn."

"Why?"

"He… um… his horse is favoring a leg and he's trying massage therapy. He needed something to sit on." _How silly is that… when Fred could easily sit on a bucket… make that two buckets._

"Maybe I should walk out to the barn for a few minutes, see if he needs help."

"No. I promised him you'd stay in the house. Jess can help with the horse."

A few minutes later Slim opened the door to the side yard and peered out, scowling.

"I don't see anyone working out there. Where is everybody?"

"Gone fishing. Shut the door. You are NOT going outside!"

"I thought they were fixing the bunkhouse roof?"

"Ran out of shingles. Will you for heaven's sake please light somewhere?"

"No need for a conniption, Daisy. I'm going," Slim retorted in an injured tone.

"How about a nice cinnamon roll, fresh out of the oven?" Daisy cajoled. "I've made some lovely caramel sauce to pour over it…"

_And isn't it lovely that cannabis oil blends so nicely with caramel sauce? Sweet dreams, Slim Sherman!_

########################

_**Daisy makes a sortie…**_

Early afternoon and the silence was surreal. Not a total lack of noise, of course: the wind whistling around the eaves of the house; the occasional snort or whinny from the pasture; the clucking of chickens quartering the sideyard; the periodic pop of igniting resin from the cookstove's firebox as loaves of bread browned in the oven; the clunk and squeak of the pump handle as Daisy drew water into the sink; the swishing of her skirts as she bustled around the kitchen, pulling together ingredients for the evening repast.

Sedated into insensibility, Slim was again snoring in one of the parlor rockers. Though riddled with guilt at having tricked him into ingesting the drug, Daisy decided she could safely spare five minutes to dash out to the bunkhouse. Tapping twice, she eased open the door and slipped inside. Young Doc had the reflector lamp at its lowest setting, shedding barely enough light to enable him to write his notes. With the shade pulled down on the single window, the rest of the room was in shadows. Divested of the top portion of the longjohns, Ruairí lay unmoving with a compress on his forehead and giving no indication of awareness someone else had entered the room. He didn't even appear to be breathing. Young Doc was in the process of wringing out a fresh compress in the basin.

"Is he…?" Daisy whispered hesitantly.

"One hour into the fever stage," Young Doc said. "I'll be needing more willowbark and ice."

"Can it wait another thirty minutes? The boys should be back by then. They generally start making ready the relays around three o'clock."

"We'll manage. How's Slim doing?"

"Quiet at the moment… but I can't keep pouring drugs into him. And I feel so guilty. Every hour he's becoming more alert. We won't be able to fool him for much longer."

"Just for today, Daisy. Let me first get past this," Young Doc nodded at his patient. "Then I'll reassess Slim's condition."

"What about you, Fred? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No. Thank you, Daisy. Everything's under control here."

"I may not be able to slip away any time soon but I'll send one of the boys for ice and start more tea brewing."

########################

_**Return of the anglers…**_

Daisy had no sooner returned to her post at the sink than the quartet of fishermen passed in front of the window. Charlie and Notch headed straight for the corral. Jess and Mike peeled off to the side door, where Daisy intercepted them with a finger to her lips.

"Shush! And where are those fish you promised for supper?"

"Weren't bitin'. Went swimmin' instead."

At Daisy's squeak of disbelief, Jess grinned. "Just kiddin'. We hiked up the ridge a ways, lookin' for elk sign. About time for 'em to…"

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by shouting from the corral. He turned to see two riders flying down the ridge road—one on a familiar leopard-spot Appaloosa. Jess stepped off the side porch as they boiled into the yard amidst a maelstrom of snorting horses and squawking, flapping chickens. Calvin Elkhorn, sporting a bloody left sleeve, stumbled as he slid off the spotted horse. Striding forward, Jess identified the second rider as one of Gantry's hands although he didn't recollect the man's name right off. Notch and Charlie burned a shuck out of the corral. Having come out of the kitchen onto the side porch, Daisy put one hand to her mouth in dismay at the din they were creating. _So much for trying to maintain a calm, quiet environment for Slim!_ With her free hand she snatched Mike by the shirt collar before he could dart into the yard. Young Doc, too, poked his head out the bunkhouse door.

The Gantry hand dismounted, moving up behind Cal close enough to catch him if he fell but refraining from touching the boy. Though manfully trying to assume a stoic warrior stance in front of his brother and cousin, Cal couldn't disguise his shaking hands, ashy pallor and overbright eyes. Blood streamed down his arm and dripped off his fingers. Respecting their kinsman's need to save face, they stood back and waited for him to speak his piece.

"Uncle Cory sent me to warn you, Mister Jess… an' to get Young Doc. We got big trouble… these men…" Calvin's eyes rolled up as he toppled backwards into the waiting arms of his self-appointed spotter. Gantry's man almost equaled Young Doc's six feet six inches. He had pale blue eyes and a long, lugubrious face.

"Name's Sutton, Dave Sutton. You recall me riding through a couple weeks ago, looking for work?" the man prompted with a toothy grin. "You recommended trying the Double G and Mister Gantry took me on."

"Oh… yeah…sure," Jess grinned back. "I'd shake your hand, but… uh… we'd better get him inside."

Sutton scooped up the boy and carried him indoors, following Jess into the parlor. Jess spared a glance at his partner, sprawled in a rocker with his head slouched to one side, his repose undisturbed by the commotion. Trust Daisy to resort to whatever means necessary to keep a patient under control.

"Put 'im down there," Jess instructed, pointing to the fainting couch in the corner. "Keep an eye on 'im. I'll be right back."

In the kitchen, he found Daisy pulling the medical kit out from under the work counter. "Should I get Young Doc?"

"Let me have a look at the boy first. If I see I need Fred, then you can fetch him for me. You'd better find out what happened from… what's his name?"

"Dave."

"Mike, would you put more kindling in the stove and fill up a kettle? I'll be needing boiling water. And you can bring me the chest with the bandages."

"Yes, ma'am."

########################

_**Dave relays the news…**_

Back outside, the over-tall ranch hand turned to Jess. "Isn't that child a little young to be… ah… _exposed?_"

"You can't imagine what that kid's seen, an' he ain't even eleven yet. Now, you wanna tell me what's goin' on?"

"As I understand it, a gang of ruffians attacked the Lake ranch last night. Mister Lake and his crew fought them off but two of his people were wounded and a gang member was killed. The rest of them got away. The Indian boy—Calvin—was dispatched to the Double G for assistance, and to warn you. Evidently Mister Lake intends to go after the gang before they can regroup and stage another assault. Is it true that he and all his employees are real Indians?" Dave appeared nervous. "I… er… I haven't actually had any close personal encounters with… um… _wild_ Indians since coming out West."

"Just 'cause Cory an' his people don't live on a reservation, they ain't wild like you're thinkin'. He's half-white an' runs his spread same as we do. You ain't been there?"

"No… no, I haven't. It's just that…"

"Spit it out."

"When Calvin showed up, Mister Gantry came over to the bunkhouse asking for volunteers to go over to Lake's place and join his… uh… posse, or whatever you call it. Reason being, he said, was that if word got out there were armed Indians on the loose… well… you know what people would think."

"But if there's white men ridin' with 'em… yeah, I can see his point. Makes good sense. What'd he send you here for?"

"Frankly, I'm not much good with a handgun," Dave admitted ruefully. "I guess Mister Gantry figured I'd be as useless riding with the posse as guarding the homeplace, so he asked me if I'd escort Calvin. Maybe stay and help you if you can find any use for me while Mister Sherman's indisposed. We were halfway here when someone took a shot at us and he was hit. Since he was still able to ride, we came on in. That's all I know, Mister Harper."

"Call me Jess. Did anyone tell you what those men were after?"

"Just that they're hunting someone and they think he's around here. Wouldn't want to be him, whoever he is."

"You any good with a rifle or shotgun, Dave?"

"A sight better than I am with a pistol, Jess… no pun intended."

"Might as well plan on stayin' here tonight, maybe even a few days."

"I didn't have time to get my bedroll together."

"We got beds here. Okay… let me think about this. First thing we gotta do is get that spotted horse outta sight, never mind why. I'll explain later. If you don't mind, get him fixed up in the barn an' take care a yours. I'm gonna run in an' see if Daisy needs any help with the kid. It's about time for the afternoon stage from Cheyenne. Notch an' Charlie'll take care a that. I'll come back out an' help 'em if I can."

"Sure thing." Gathering up the reins of the two horses, Dave jerked his head over Jess's shoulder. "By the way, there's a man over there looks like he wants to talk to you."


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20:_** THE SPIRIT HORSE**

**_"_Four things greater than all things are:  
Women and horses and power and war."** • Rudyard Kipling

_**Doc determines triage…**_

Jess spun on his heels and caught Young Doc gesticulating from the door of the bunkhouse.

"Was that one of Cory Lake's boys being carried in?"Doc demanded in a stage whisper as he admitted Jess to the sickroom.

"Yeah. Caught one in the shoulder. Daisy's tendin' 'im but you'd better go an' have a look."

"What happened?"

"There was a ruckus over to Lake's last night… gang lookin' for _him_." Jess jutted his chin at the shadowy lump on the bed. "Some a Cory's folks was shot an' he sent Calvin to warn us. That tall joker what carried Cal into the house is one a Gantry's hands."

The dilemma was momentary—an actively bleeding patient took precedence over one immobilized by fever. Mouthing a string of epithets, Young Doc stomped out after Jess, huffing as they quick-stepped across the yard, kicking aside already addled chickens. Before Jess could wrench open the side door, Young Doc grabbed his arm.

"What do those men want with Ruairí? Are they deputies, bounty hunters?"

"Not the law an' there ain't no reward that we know of. My guess'd be vengeance. Maybe he stole somethin' a theirs, or killed one a their kin, or double-crossed 'em. That's usually what happens."

"Why would they attack Lake's place when the man they want is here?"

"It's that spotted pony… Calvin switched mounts with Ruairí. They musta been spyin' on the Lake ranch an' seen 'im there, so they thought Ruairí was there, too. Now they know he ain't, won't be long afore they track 'im here… 'less Cory an' his warriors catch up to 'em first. Either way, there's gonna be gunplay an' killin'."

"Wait… _warriors?_ You don't mean Cory's boys? They _know_ us… they know _me._ They wouldn't hurt us."

"Let me tell you somethin' 'bout them 'boys', Doc. 'Fore they got all domesticated, every one a them bucks was raised to ride an' fight the white man by the time he was old enough to walk. While I got the greatest respect for Cory an' his people, way down deep they are what they are. Ain't sayin' they're _savages_, just they _can_ be if pushed far enough. Once they get the bloodlust up, ain't no tellin' how far they'll go."

"In that regard they're not too much different from a mob of so-called civilized white men in a lynching mood," Young Doc muttered with a scowl.

"You got that right!" Jess' hand strayed to the faint scar on his neck, a reminder of one such necktie party in which he narrowly escaped death.

"Cory won't let that happen," Young Doc said with emphasis. "Just one incident like that would bring the government down on his head and destroy everything he's worked for. He'd lose his ranch."

"Thing is, Doc. Cory might not be the one leadin' 'em. He'll choose to protect his homeplace first, 'specially seein' as how it's his wife's time. See what I'm sayin'?"

"What do you propose to do, Jess?"

"Me?"

"You're the man in charge."

########################

_**Doc attends to practicalities…**_

After congratulating Daisy on leaving him absolutely nothing to do for Patient Number Three, Young Doc pried open an eyelid on Patient Number One to make sure he was still among the living, was about to trudge back to the bunkhouse and Patient Number Two, then realized he still needed that tea and ice. Crooking a finger at Mike, he signaled the boy to follow him into the kitchen and sat down.

Young Doc's signature approach to dealing with young children was to place himself at eye level with them, which reduced the intimidation factor, and respectfully request _their_ assistance with _his_ problem rather than dispense orders. Too, he spoke in a conspiratorial voice that led children to believe they were sharing secrets.

"Mike, I know you're real busy helping Aunt Daisy but do you think she'd mind lending you to me for a few minutes?"

"Heck no, Doctor Whatleigh. Whatcha need me to do?"

"Well… you did so well sitting with Slim earlier, I wonder if you'd mind doing the same thing with Ruairí? I left him alone in the bunkhouse. He's sick with the fever—nothing you can catch so you don't have to worry about that—but he might wake up and need a glass of water or something. We wouldn't want him to be scared, all alone in a strange place, would we?"

"Shoot no! I'll go right now," Mike replied before eeling through the side door without so much as a squeak to alert Aunt Daisy to his desertion. _No flies on that boy!_ Young Doc thought.

Many years of familiarity with this kitchen allowed Young Doc free range of its facilities. In short order he had the stove refired, a pot of coffee burbling, and another pot of tea steeping. Next stop: the icehouse dug into the side of the hill behind the corral. On the way he hailed Notch and Charlie to apprise them of Calvin's status. Jess and the man who'd ridden in with Calvin also approached the fence.

"Just thought you'd like to know, boys… it was a clean through-and-through. He'll be fine in no time. Daisy's with him and he was sitting up when I checked."

"Can I see 'im?" Charlie asked. "He's my little brother. When Uncle Cory hears about what happened…"

"I'd tell you to ride on home an' tell 'em Cal's gonna be okay, but I can't risk you bein' shot, too," Jess said.

########################

_**The spotted pony…**_

Charlie shrugged. "Was on account a that damned spirit horse he got shot. Might as well've been carryin' a flag sayin' _here's your target_. When Fox first got here, back in the spring, Cal sure did admire that pony. Fox said he'd be glad to trade him for some other horse but Uncle Cory said no, he didn't want it on the place. Said it was too… too… con… something."

"Conspicuous?" Young Doc supplied.

"Yeah… that's it. Said every time white folks see a horse with them markings, makes 'em think about Injuns on the warpath. That's why we don't got no pintos on the ranch, neither."

"Been me, I'da took 'im out on the range somewhere an' turned 'im loose," Jess opined.

Charlie grimaced. "Tried that. Didn't work. Next mornin' he were right outside the corral, waitin' to be let in."

"Maybe you just didn't take him far enough?"

"Next day took 'im _way_ out… like fifteen, twenty miles…"

"Don't tell me he come back?"

"Uncle Cory wanted to shoot 'im but the old folks put up a fuss… said he was the spirit animal to Fox an' that's how he knew to come right back, an' that killin' 'im would bring bad luck. Fox was leavin' for the high country anyway so he went ahead an' kept him."

"Bet Cory was hoppin' mad when Cal rode in on 'im the other night," Jess opined.

Charlie nodded gravely. "I'm bettin' Uncle Cory ordered Cal to get 'im off the ranch right away, so the dumb kid rode 'im here. Whoever was watchin' the ranch coulda spotted that pony a mile off but not who was up."

"That explains a lot," Dave commented, slouching against the rails. "They followed the horse and now they think their quarry's here."

Jess cleared his throat. "Thing is, Dave. He _is_ here."

########################

_**Slim catches on…**_

Awakened by the racket of the four o'clock stage's arrival, Slim played possum in his rocker while in the next room Daisy and Jess concocted an excuse—illness within—and apology for denying passengers entry into the house. To forestall any customer complaints to the head office, they arranged to take coffee and pie out to the passengers.

As soon as he heard them re-enter via the kitchen's front door, Slim got up and strolled around the corner. Seeming entirely his old self—straightforward and in complete command of his faculties—he caught them both by surprise.

"Enough is enough, you two. No more evasion. No more drugs. I want to know what's going on… right now. Have a seat_._" He pointed to the kitchen table. Depositing the soiled cups, dishes and forks in the sink, they exchanged rueful glances.

"Can I get you some coffee, Slim?" Daisy asked timidly.

"No thanks. I'll get my own. At least I'll know what's in it. No. Don't look at each other. Look at me. Now sit."

Both Jess and Daisy were acutely aware that behind that sardonic smile and deceptively composed posture loomed a highly pissed off rancher who would no longer be denied. Pinioned on the spot like that, Daisy was obliged to tell all she knew, which wasn't by any means the whole story. Jess indulged in the usual amount of verbal foot-dragging, fully expecting Slim was going to cut him a new one at any moment.

When the confessors had run out of words, Slim shook his head slowly. He scrubbed a hand across his face. "Now that you've laid it out, it's coming back to me. Not completely… but it's all starting to connect. Enough to see we're in yet another jam caused by…"

"Now you wait a minute, Slim," Jess interrupted. "This ain't my fault."

"I was about to say…" Slim retorted, "… _by circumstances beyond our control. _And in this case, by a specific individual who should've faced a firing squad a long time ago. I'm assuming you've got him locked in the bunkhouse and that's the real reason Notch and Charlie are sleeping in the house. Well… the sooner he goes, the better."

"He saved your life," Jess objected.

"Roney Bishop saved yours and look where that got you," Slim flung back, voice rising. "One good deed doesn't excuse a plethora of bad ones."

"I ain't sayin' that, Slim. All I'm sayin' is maybe you oughta hear his side before you condemn the man."

"Cowards, deserters, traitors… they don't lose their yellow stripes because time has passed."

Daisy's head swiveled back and forth in fear that one or the other would resort to physical altercation. But before it could get that far, Young Doc clomped through the side door.


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21:_** CHANGING OF THE GUARD**

_**"****The truth is out there."**__ • __Fox Mulder_

_**Young Doc retaliates…**_

"What's going on here? You were supposed to be keeping him quiet." Daisy withered under the doctor's baleful glare.

"Don't you yell at her," Jess glowered back. "He ambushed us an' we hadda tell 'im everything."

Slim snorted. "Oh… we're a long way from _everything_. For instance, what're _you_ doing still here? I seem to recall you were headed to Lake's place."

"And I will be, once my business here is finished. Nothing particularly important… just a man with a concussion and a broken arm, another burning up with fever, and a boy with a gunshot wound." Sarcasm dripped from every word. Being a good hand taller and closing on a hundred pounds heavier, Doctor Wilfred Whatleigh was one of the very few individuals Slim Sherman couldn't intimidate. On the other hand, Slim wasn't known to back down from anyone—Young Doc included.

"Why are you going to so much trouble for that traitor? You and Twelvetrees both…"

"We're doctors. Friend or foe, that's what we do. Well, don't let me interrupt your afternoon social. I just came in to get the willowbark."

Daisy's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh Fred! I forgot about the tea and the ice, what with all the excitement. How is Ruairí doing?"

Slim stood up. "I don't care how you do it, just get that man off this ranch. I want it done. Today. I'll do it myself if I have to."

Maneuvering his ponderous bulk around the table, Young Doc planted himself directly in front of Slim, close enough that Slim had to tilt his head up. "_You_ are going nowhere even if I have to sit on you, pour a whole bottle of laudanum down your craw and tie you to your bedstead. Furthermore, my other patient out in the bunkhouse is likewise not going anywhere."

"You can't tell me…" Slim shouted, affronted at being given orders in his own home.

"I most certainly can if—in my professional opinion—you are behaving in an irrational manner. I can also testify that you require temporary treatment in a mental hospital."

"_Irrational?_ Are you saying I'm crazy?"

"Do you think you've been behaving normally? Is it normal to knock your partner unconscious and give him a black eye?"

"What? No! I didn't…" Slim turned to stare at Jess in disbelief. "Did I? Jess… did I do that to you?"

"Yeah. You did, pard. I got between you an' Daisy 'cause I was afraid you was gonna accidentally hit her."

"Me? Hit Daisy?"

"You weren't in your right mind at the time, dear. We know that," Daisy hastily assured him.

Slim fell heavily back into his chair, his face gone a sickly pale. "I don't know what to say. I don't remember any of it. _Sorry_ doesn't seem to be adequate."

Young Doc took over. "As I was saying, you're far from well, no matter how you're feeling at the moment. Part of the recovery process in a concussion case is rest. And not allowing yourself to become agitated. There is absolutely no urgency attached to your pursuit of justice. Trust me on that. Your prisoner can't be transported in his present state, and he certainly can't decamp on his own. Speaking of which, I'd better get back to him."

Daisy in the meantime had busied herself pouring the tea into a lidded pail for the doctor to carry back to the bunkhouse. "Did you get one of the boys to bring you some ice?"

"I've got a bucketful. It should last the evening."

########################

_**Jess and Dave have a conversation…**_

Supper that evening was a subdued and somewhat disjointed affair. Being odd man out with Slim, Jess, Daisy and Mike, Dave felt self-conscious. Daisy soon won him over. Charlie and Jimmy volunteered to stand watch while the others ate. Calvin napped on the fainting couch, having opted to wait for the second seating with his kin. As Young Doc had immured himself with his patient in the bunkhouse, Daisy sent Jess out with the doctor's supper on a covered tray.

Jess and Dave took up stations on the front porch as dusk descended. When Slim made noises about joining them, Daisy deflected him with a reminder that he'd not spent much quality time with Mike lately and the boy needed his attention, if only for a game of cards or checkers.

"This is nice," Dave remarked, sitting on the porch deck with a rifle in his lap and his long legs splayed out over the steps. With his rifle cradled in his arms, Jess had taken the remaining rocker. Both were snugged into fleece-lined sheepskin jackets. Dark had come on quickly and their exhalations fogged the crisp night air.

"You get to do this often?"

"When life ain't so busy, yeah. Slim an' me, we come out here to unwind afore hittin' the sack."

"How long have you two known each other?"

" 'Bout four years now. I was just passin' through. One thing led to another an' next thing I knew I signed on. Now I'm part owner, along with Slim's brother, Andy. He's away at college in St. Louis."

"No offense, but I heard you used to be a hired gun out of Texas. That true… or just bunkhouse gossip?"

"Used to be a lot of things, Dave. But yeah, I'm a Texas boy. How about you? Where you from?"

"Pennsylvania. Tried to enlist but they wouldn't take me—coal mining was an exempt occupation because they needed all mines running at maximum capacity. Anyway, turned out I was too tall for the shafts, kept smacking my head on the crossbeams. Ended up with a desk job instead."

"Whydya quit?"

"Couldn't see myself being a desk jockey the rest of my life."

"I hear ya."

"Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"You think they might come tonight? I have to admit I'm more than a little nervous. Today was the first time I've ever been shot at. Almost pissed myself and…"

"Dave."

"Yeah?"

"Stop talking an' breathe."

"Yessir."

"And don't call me 'sir'."

"Okay."

"To answer your question… no, don't think anyone'll be botherin' us tonight. Even if you was followed, they'll need time to try an' figure out what they're up against… an' they'll need daylight for that. Still, won't hurt to post a guard. I slept late so I'll take first watch. You up for second watch… say midnight to three? Charlie an' Notch can take over 'til dawn."

"I'm sure I can do that."

"Good. You go on an' get a couple hours a shuteye. Daisy'll fix you up with blankets an' pillows for the sofa, or you can use my bed."

"Thanks. See you at midnight." With that, Dave got up and went inside, leaving Jess to contemplate the general state of affairs._ What happens now? It ain't lookin' good. None of it. Maybe Slim's right about Ruairí an' I shoulda stayed out of it. Maybe…_

Jess was spared from sinking into a bog of pessimism by Daisy stepping out onto the porch with a mug of scorching hot coffee. "Thought you could use this. No… don't get up. I'm not staying."

"You shouldn't be out here at all. You'll catch cold."

"Everyone else is asleep or getting there. There's a half pot of coffee on the stove. It will keep warm for a while yet. I'm off to bed myself as soon as I make one last check on Fred and Ruairí."

"I'll do that, Daisy. I need to get up an' stretch my legs anyway."

Daisy withdrew, leaving Jess once again alone with his conflicting thoughts. _ Stay… or go._

########################

_**Jess gets a situation report…**_

Jess decided against lighting a lantern to guide his steps—a single bobbing light would present too tempting a target to a lurking sniper. Despite having only one good eye and with a heavy overcast obscuring starlight, he managed to make his way to the bunkhouse without tripping over anything. He gave the door two light knuckle raps before easing it open and slipping inside. Young Doc was going over his notes, wedged back in the rocker with his stockinged feet up on a footlocker.

"Did I wake you?" Jess whispered. "Everything okay in here? Need anything?"

"No, yes and no. Anything happening out there I need to know about? You don't need to whisper. He's out of it."

"Nope. Doubt anything's gonna happen tonight. He gonna be all right?"

"Went through a rougher patch than I was expecting but should be perked up some by noon tomorrow. Enough so I can leave him and see to Missus Lake."

"Doc, I don't know as it's safe for you to be travelin' alone, what with them marauders on the loose."

"We'll worry about that tomorrow. You'd better get some sleep."

"Got a while yet. Dave's up next. Here, you hang onto this, just in case." Jess handed over the rifle and a fistful of cartridges. "I'll get another one in the house. See you at breakfast… I hope."

"Before you go, did Dan mention Ruairí showing any… ah… unexpected symptoms, the night he sat with him?"

"Not that I can recall. Why?"

"Did you notice anything different about him, the next day… anything unusual?"

"How would I know what's usual an' what ain't?"

"Never mind. Probably not important."


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter 22:_** BEST LAID PLANS**

_**"****Be tolerant of those who are lost on their path."**__ • __Native American elder wisdom_

_**TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15th**_…

Nothing untoward occurred during the night and dawn was imminent. Daisy was back to her usual sunny self as she served up breakfast in stages, beginning with Charlie and Notch, who'd already done the milking and collected the eggs while still standing watch. Despite his nurse's opinion that he shouldn't be up and about, Calvin got himself dressed so that he could join the others. Having a hole through his shoulder hadn't diminished his appetite.

Daisy'd long ago got over her newcomer's preconceptions of natives being uncivilized savages and had visited the Lake ranch many times. Most all the residents spoke passable if not fluent English and she'd been accepted as a peer among the older generation of women. Charlie and Calvin's grandmother, Ninovan, and Jimmy Notch Ear's mother, Haiwee, were particular friends, along with Chelan. Daisy'd grown quite fond of the Indian youngsters in the short time they'd been around the Sherman ranch and, once over their initial shyness, they'd responded with deference and affection, calling her 'Auntie'.

As soon as they were done, Charlie and Notch retreated to their temporary bunks in Mike's room. Calvin protested Daisy's no-nonsense directive that he return to his couch.

"I ain't sleepy, Auntie. I can't lay there all day."

"Then find something to read and park yourself in a rocker. Today you rest whether you like it or not."

"But…"

"Do as I say or… _I'll tell your grandmother."_

A potent threat, Calvin knew. Before her grandson was seconded to the Sherman ranch, Ninovan Elkhorn had laid down the law about minding Miz Daisy, as had Haiwee with her boy Jimmy.

Accustomed to sleeping in a bunkhouse atmosphere, Dave was still sacked out on the big sofa at the back of the parlor, unbothered by the chatter at the breakfast table around the corner. He woke up just as Young Doc, rumpled and rheumy-eyed, shambled in through the side door followed by Jess, who'd chosen to sleep in the bunkhouse after his shift on guard duty.

Moments later, Mike emerged from the bedroom with the announcement that Slim was snoring 'real loud'. "You want I should wake him up, Aunt Daisy?"

"No, dear. Leave him be."

Daisy had coffee and food on the table by the time all four returned from the washroom.

########################

"_**Fred… did you get any sleep at all?"**_

"No… but it was worth it."

Daisy pursed her lips in disapproval. "I hardly see how watching another man suffer is 'worth it'."

Young Doc gave her an exasperated look. "You of all people should understand. If taken in context, it means I was privileged to experience the empathy usually reserved for you nurses. Traditionally, a doctor's role is to examine, pronounce, dispense and move on, leaving the dirty work to a subordinate. In this instance I was able to acquire substantial notes as to how my patient was faring—physically, mentally and emotionally. I feel it's important to understand how all three interact in the healing processing. A patient with a hopeless attitude is not going to thrive."

"I do apologize, Fred. I wasn't thinking. How _is_ Ruairí this morning?"

"Not rebounding as quickly as expected, but at least he's sleeping naturally… finally." Which didn't exactly answer the question.

"Will he be up to breakfast, do you think?"

"Not a chance. Dinner, maybe, but don't count on it. Speaking of which, dear lady, could I prevail upon you to supply me with a couple of sandwiches and a canteen of coffee… for the road?"

Slim emerged from the bedroom just in time to hear Young Doc's request, apparently not having caught the previous subject. "I don't see why you need to go. Dan's there… can't he can attend Cory's wife?"

"Of course he can. But I've been monitoring Missus Lake throughout her pregnancy so it's my responsibility to look in on her. If I leave here soon I should make it by early afternoon."

Jess spoke up, pointedly ignoring his partner. "Ain't that kinda rough on your buggy?" The road to Cory Lake's ranch passed through George Gantry's property, the right-of-way having been established years ago by the original homesteaders. Gantry's portion—from the stage road to his homeplace—was well-maintained. As Cory had retreated from interaction with the white community, the remainder had fallen into disrepair, accessible only by rugged farm vehicles designed to negotiate ruts and potholes.

"I usually leave it with George and borrow a team and buckboard to go the rest of the way," Young Doc admitted. "Even then it'll take me about four hours to get there from here."

"Cuttin' overland on horseback, you could get there in an hour, hour and a half," Jess pointed out.

"Don't know as I could manage even one hour in the saddle," Young Doc chuckled. "It's been a while since I've had to. And do you even _have_ a horse big enough for me?"

"You're welcome to leave your buggy here and use our buckboard, Doc," Slim offered. "It doesn't look like we'll be needing it any time soon. Got a mule team that'll go all day without breaking a sweat or even breathing hard."

Jess raised his eyebrows as he exchanged surreptitious glances with Daisy and Young Doc. Either Slim was forgetting his intention to transport his prisoner to town... or he was acknowledging, in a roundabout fashion, that no such transportation would be occurring in the near future.

"Well now, I'd surely appreciate it," the doctor responded genially. "That'll sure save me some time and I won't need to trouble Gantry for the loan of his."

"We don't know but them outlaws might still be in that area," Jess mused. "So someone needs to ride shotgun. By rights that oughta be me, but who's gonna guard the ranch?"

"I'm better left-handed with a shotgun than you'll ever be on your best day," Slim sniped with a withering glance. "Plus I've got Dave, Charlie and Notch. Daisy can shoot, too, when she has to."

"And me," Calvin chimed in. "I can handle a rifle or shotgun with one arm."

########################

_**Dave asks a question…**_

"Is there really a chance we might be attacked here?" Dave asked, worry lines creasing his forehead.

"It's a possibility," Slim said. "Wouldn't be the first time. But don't worry—we've got guns enough to go around."

"So this is all about the man in the bunkhouse?" Dave queried innocently. "I'm not sure I understand his status." The chorus of responses was less than enlightening:

"Prisoner," Slim stated emphatically with a scowl.

"Guest," Jess countered, crossing his arms in a defensive posture.

"Friend," Mike piped up with childish enthusiasm.

"Patient," Young Doc and Daisy asserted with the gravitas of committed caregivers.

"Thanks for clearing that up," Dave responded with a wry nod.

Mike suddenly jumped out of his chair. "Riders comin'! A whole bunch of 'em!"

Jess nabbed the boy by the shirttail, preventing him from bounding to the front door. "You stay right here, Tiger. I'll see who it is." So saying, he got up and went to the door, pulling aside the curtain. "It's Mort. Looks like he's got a posse. I'll go out an' see what they want."

Slim frowned as he, too, stood. "I'd better go with you."

Daisy and Young Doc exchanged frowns. "I give up," the latter said, clearly exasperated. "Let him go."

########################

_**Mort's dire news…**_

"Sorry to disturb you folks at this hour, but we've got us a problem." Sheriff Mort Corey leaned forward with his forearms crossed on the pommel. "It's about that gang that came around here last week. I need to question those Lake boys you've got working here."

"You'd better come on inside," Slim said. "Have your men water their horses while Daisy gets coffee going for everyone."

Dave was the only unknown face. With introductions out of the way, he volunteered to round up Jimmy and Notch.

The sheriff got right to the point: "About two weeks ago four men arrived on the east-bound train and set up shop in Hogan's hotel, claiming to be agents working for the federal government's commission on war crimes. They started snooping around in pairs, looking for information on a man called Rory Connor. Didn't present any badges or credentials but they seemed legit. They gave out his description and apparently acquired enough evidence to satisfy them he was somewhere in the area. They fired off a batch of telegrams and other men started showing up. They've taken up two floors at Hogan's and rented every available stall at Barlow's livery. Brought full trail kit, according to Hogan."

"So you've established they _are_ some sort of gang," Slim said. "The same ones who came here? Why didn't you do something then, Mort?"

"I was called away to Cheyenne on a court case and was gone all week. Emmett should've checked 'em out, but he had a jail full of robbery suspects to process."

"How many altogether?" Jess wanted to know.

"Twenty registered at Hogan's. Now they're minus one that got killed at Lake's place and three others, we believe," Mort said. "None of 'em have checked out or in. That means the rest are out running at large and we gotta find 'em."

"What three others?" Slim and Jess queried simultaneously.

"I'm getting to that. When the gang ran out of townfolk to question, they started making the rounds of farms and ranches. Trouble was, they weren't particularly polite about it so they didn't get much cooperation. I got a raft of official complaints even before Gantry and Bartlett put in theirs."

"And you're just now getting around to looking for them?" Slim snorted derisively. "_After_ they attacked Lake's ranch and shot two of his people? Isn't that on the order of locking the barn door after your horse's been stolen?""

The sheriff did look apologetic. "Well, they hadn't _done_ anything besides threaten so there wasn't much I could do about it… until now. I have to follow the rules, Slim, you know that."

"Yeah… I know. So what's the plan?"

########################

_**"Don't know there is one… yet...**_

... but I've got an idea. That's why I need Jess."

"What for?" Slim demanded. "You've got ten men with you. Aren't they enough?"

"Eleven against sixteen? With a couple more sharpshooters, we'd have better odds. And we've got worse problems. Gantry sent a messenger. By now the whole town knows about the gang and what happened out at his place and Lake's and yours... and why those dead mean got there."

"Good thing Garland Bartlett was here checking on Daisy and Mike… he took care of it. Wait... you said there were twenty... what other dead men?"

Mort continued. "The townfolk're are up in arms… but not because of a gang of outsiders in pursuit of some drifter they could care less about. Cory Lake's people have banded up and they're out there hunting the hunters."

"You've got to be kidding!" Slim exclaimed in alarm, visions of long-ago Indian raids flashing through his head.

Jess felt a guilty flush rushing to his face as he looked around at the others. None of them were about to admit this wasn't news.

The sheriff was nodding mournfully. "They left us a message—four horses tied up in front of the jail this morning, with four dead men slung over their saddles. Presumably the fourth man is the one who bought it at Lake's. We were expecting that one to be delivered later on in the day."

"Howdya know that's Cory's doins'?" Jess protested. "Scalps missin' or something?" _Probably not a good idea to mention the involvement of Gantry's volunteer white warriors._

"Come on, Jess. One shot in the head, the other three with their throats slashed? I mean… we all understand his anger at having his ranch invaded and his people put at risk, but as a lawman I can't condone that sort of retaliation. Unless, of course, it's self-defense and occurs on private property, which would only account for the gunshot victim."

"What do you expect Jess to do?" Slim cut in angrily. "Find Cory for you?"

"Exactly… yes. If you weren't disabled, I'd ask you. You've known Lake the longest. He'd listen to you. But Jess is my next best hope of de-escalating this whole sorry business. And he's the best tracker around."

"Not only no but _hell no!_" Slim stormed. "He's not gonna be your Judas goat!"

Young Doc had got up from the table and sidled around next to Slim, close enough to wrap an iron grip around Slim's upper arm. "Calm yourself, son. Best let Jess speak for himself and make his own decision."


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23:_** RUSES DE GUERRE**

_**"****Hold out baits to entice the enemy." **__ • __Sun Tzu, The Art of War_

_**Conscripting the tracker…**_

Jess purposely kept his face averted from his partner's. "So let's hear this idea."

"I propose splitting up my men. I'll lead one group to look for the outlaws. You go after Lake with the rest, along with one of your Cheyenne wranglers. He won't shoot first if he sees one of his boys with you. See if you can talk him down, get him to understand this isn't the way. If the Army gets wind of this they'll send in troops and shut down his whole outfit. We don't want that."

"You're assumin' I _can_ find 'im, Mort. Remember, he grew up in this country. I didn't. There's a thousand places he could be hidin'."

"Can't hide and hunt at the same time."

"True.

"So will you do it?"

"I will. But I got some conditions. The Indian boys stay here, an' you leave at least one a your men to replace me an' protect my people. Were you plannin' on startin' your search at Gantry's?"

"I was."

"Good. Young Doc an' me'll ride along that far, then we'll head up to Lake's on our own. I wanna talk with Cory's wife first, an' Doc's gotta go there anyway. We'll be safe enough between Gantry's an' Lake's. Those yahoos know what they're after ain't there no more."

"How do you… or they… know that?" Mort queried.

"Because he's here." Slim had been silently fuming in the background, furious at his exclusion from the arrangements. His steely announcement sliced through the air like a hot knife through butter.

########################

_**We've got the bait…**_

The sheriff's expression flashed from stunned to controlled anger. He continued in the same conversational tone as if a bomb hadn't just been dropped in his lap.

"Let me get this straight… I've got ten men standing around outside in the cold wondering why I dragged 'em out of bed in the middle of the night to go chasing after a gang who're hunting down a fugitive you just happen to be hiding here on your ranch and—while we're at it—intercept an Indian war party, deter them from inciting a riot in town, and prevent a repetition of the Sand Creek massacre by Army troops?"

Mort's face had gone red with the effort of modulating his voice. "Before we move forward, I believe an explanation's in order. Which one of you gentlemen would care to oblige me?"

"That'll take a while," Jess admitted.

"Give me the quick and dirty version, then."

For whatever reason, Slim clammed up and left it to Jess to do the explaining. Mort sat through it without interrupting.

"You understand, this changes everything," the sheriff said, rubbing his jaw. "Why waste time tracking that gang when we've got the bait in our hands? They'll come straight to us."

"Not here, they're not," Slim declared with a face like thunder. "I've had enough of people shooting up the place. He's going back to town with you. Once you've got him in a cell, you can do whatever you want with him and your posse can defend the jail."

"That would be putting a lot of innocent townfolk in danger," Mort countered.

"How about some appreciation for _my_ family's welfare, Mort? I don't care _where_ you take him… just _take_ him."

"Could you please stop referring to him like he's some stray cat?" Young Doc moderated. "He's got a name and it's Ruairí."

In the meantime, Daisy had finished brewing coffee and warming up biscuits and ham. Dave and Mike were detailed to deliver these out to the posse, who had fired up the forge and were huddled around it awaiting the return of their leader.

########################

_**"****Where's this Roo-air-ree now?"**_

Mort was as unable to wrap his tongue around all those vowels as Jess had been.

"Bunkhouse," Slim said. "And you're welcome to borrow a horse."

"My patient's in no condition to ride," Young Doc contended. "He stays."

"He goes," Slim snarled. "In the spring wagon, if necessary. Be happy to lend it and a team."

"You said Ruairí'd be okay by noon," Jess complained to the doctor.

"Number one, it isn't noon," the doctor rebutted. "Number two, evidently my prognosis was overly optimistic."

"Look, boys… we've got other fish to fry right now. This'll have to wait until we get back and I'll want to question him first. Can he be moved or not?" Mort demanded.

"Come see for yourself if you don't believe me," Young Doc said. "Slim… I hope you remember what I said about getting overexcited. That threat still holds."

"Am I losing my mind?" Slim muttered after the other three men had exited the kitchen. "Why's everyone against me?"

Sitting down next to him, Daisy took his right hand in hers and thumbed his knuckles. "You are _not_ crazy, Slim Sherman, and we're not against you. But you've got to let it go… this vendetta or whatever you want to call it. You're only doing yourself harm and putting a horrible strain on your relationship with Jess."

########################

_**Mort gets confirmation…**_

Young Doc's attempts to rouse his patient went unrewarded. "Sorry, Mort. Hypersomnia following a malarial flareup isn't an uncommon occurrence. Looks like it'll be hours yet before your canary sings."

Jess hovered anxiously. "He _is _gonna wake up, ain't he?"

"Yes… but he might be disoriented for awhile. That is, he might be awake but unable to communicate sensibly."

"How come, after last time, he was okay to ride… an' Saturday he was normal all day, but today he can't even wake up?"

Young Doc shook his head. "Without a baseline, I can't say for sure. I'll know more after I've compared notes with Twelvetrees."

Jess snorted. "Don't bother. Dan's the one started all this traitor business in the first place an' got Slim riled up."

"I'm not interested in Dan's politics… just his professional observations. I suspect there's more to Ruairí's condition than just malaria."

"Like what?"

"Not sure yet…"

"Gentlemen… we need to get this show on the road," Mort interjected. "Aren't you going to post a guard or something?"

"Does he look like someone capable of doing a runner? Young Doc huffed. "No, he's not going anywhere under his own steam, that's for certain. Someone needs to look after him, though."

"Wouldn't it simplify matters to move him into the house?" the sheriff asked.

"Slim ain't gonna go for that," Jess said. "You seen how he acted. But I got an idea… maybe Calvin wouldn't mind stayin' out here an' keepin' an eye out. He can't do nothin' but sit around anyway."

"I'll talk to Daisy about that," the doctor agreed. "In the meantime, let's go back to the house and figure out what we're going to do… and how."

########################

_**The new and improved plan…**_

The planning committee proceeded from the assumption the marauders were lurking somewhere in the area between the Gantry and Sherman ranches. Though most of the present company were veterans of the Late Unpleasantness, it fell to Slim—as the sole former officer among them—to explain _ruses of war_ and devise stratagem. Two of the possemen posing as ordinary ranch hands would go ahead, leading a string of coach horses acting as ordinary ranch stock. It being Sunday with no stage service, the animals could be spared and would be returned the next day.

Jess, Mort and Young Doc would leave next, with Jess disguised in an approximation of Ruairí's clothes on the spotted horse. Four more posse members would follow not too far behind—convincingly portraying hungover cowpokes returning from a riproaring night in town. Two others would be dispatched to sentinel positions within sight and shooting distance of the Sherman ranchhouse and outbuildings. The last pair would be stationed at the house itself.

There was always a chance the Sherman ranch was under surveillance, in which case the outlaws wouldn't be fooled. Mort and Jess had calculated the odds… would the raiders go for the spotted horse deception… or would they attack the ranch under the impression all the able-bodied men had left? Either way, Jess and the doctor still had to get to the Lake ranch. The unknown factor was the gang itself. How many members remained? How cohesive were they? Were they relying on an overwhelming force of guns or were they capable of splitting into two fronts? How many casualties were they prepared to accept—or to inflict—in order to achieve their goal?

########################

_**Riding to Gantry's spread…**_

"I have a bad feeling about this," the sheriff grumbled, riding alongside Jess as they turned off the stage road onto the wagon track leading to Gantry's homeplace. "George isn't going to be any happier about luring outlaws onto his property than Slim was."

"George ain't got a old woman an' a young kid to worry about, or a broke arm. An' he's got a lot more hands on the lookout."

"Still, this isn't exactly what I had in mind…" Mort apologized, "and I'm not all that comfortable using you and that animal as bait."

"Somebody hadda ride 'im," Jess grinned, leaning over to give the leopard-spot horse a pat on the neck.

"How'd your man…"

"Ruairí." Jess reminded him, emphasizing the syllables to illustrate how to say it. "His name's Ruairí."

"How did he come by a horse like that anyway? I always heard the Nez Perce were stingy with their breeding stock."

"Story goes when the Office a Indian Affairs was settin' up their model reservation at Wind River, they decided to entertain the bigwigs from Washington with a traditional powwow. Figured if the suits got to see a bunch a happy Indians dancin' around in paint an' feathers with flashy horses, why, they'd go home satisfied an' wouldn't come 'round botherin' 'em no more."

"Typical government thinking," Mort snorted. "A whole lot of circus and not so much bread."

"Huh? Well… anyway, the agent in charge a the shindig decided their horses was too ordinary lookin', so he sent up to Idaho an' bought two dozen Palouse geldings from Chief Joseph's Minam line. Good bloodlines but culls. Weren't none of 'em trained to work cattle so Chief Bear didn't have no use for 'em. After the show was over, he gave 'em out as presents to his favorite warriors."

"I'd sure like to know how a red-headed Irishman ends up a Shoshone warrior," Mort mused. "Not to mention what those outlaws—if that's what they are—want with him… and why he's even here."

"I don't know, if that's what you're askin'. We ain't got to know each other well enough to get into that. The way it's lookin' we ain't gonna get the chance. Tell the truth, I'm kinda worried 'bout what Slim might do while we're gone."

Mort studied Jess's profile for a few moments. Even with the hat pulled down low over his face, plunging it in shadow, it was plain to see the man was deeply distressed.

"Why do you even care, Jess? What's this stranger to you?" the sheriff finally inquired. "And what's going on with you and Slim?"

"I asked myself that same question, Mort… an' I don't have a real good answer. I wish I did."

########################

_**Thinking and riding…**_

Mort Corey was frustrated beyond measure. It had been a long time since his friends had been at odds over one of society's outcasts and he hated to see it crop up now. Slim was his father's son in that his moral code was set in stone—things were either right or they were wrong, with minuscule wiggle room for doubt. Jess's moral boundaries ebbed and flowed with the tides of a mercurial sea. His judgments were elastic according to each individual circumstance, but he could be equally hardnosed about an issue when he felt he was right. Somehow over the years they'd learned how to compromise, but every now and then something came up about which they could not reach an accommodation… and the fur would fly.

A curious facet of Slim's personality was he'd developed a blind eye to his partner's checkered past. He'd be the first to defend Jess's inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness against anyone who challenged those rights based on some indiscretion that had occurred years ago. Yet in this instance he seemed determined to deny any charitable inclinations.

Mort's mind was churning away at the possible roots of this current conflict—which was unlike any of their previous clashes over a third party in that the individual in question had heretofore been unknown to either one. He deduced that it wasn't necessarily the man himself, but what he represented that was causing the friction. As a war veteran, Mort didn't need an explanation of the subject's condition and wasn't unduly dismayed at coming away empty-handed. It could wait until later, when the man was recovered and coherent… assuming that was going to happen. For some reason the word _'traitor'_ kept floating to the surface of Mort's ruminations, although its significance—and its relationship to either Jess or Slim—remained elusive. That, too, would come in time.

Jess dropped back to check on Young Doc, bouncing along behind them in the buckboard. "You doin' okay?"

"My butt's numb but I'll probably survive."

"Ain't but thirty more minutes to Gantry's then another hour to Lake's. You worried?"

"No. Are you?"

"Not so long's we're out in the open like this." Jess gestured around at the treeless flatland they were traversing. "No place for a sniper to hide. Up ahead where the road cuts through the woods, a couple a Mort's men are waitin' on us. They'll escort us the rest a the way to Gantry's."


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24:_** VINDICATION**

_**"****Have patience awhile... truth is the child of time." **__ • __Immanuel Kant_

_**In the house of old cowboys…**_

At the Gantry ranch house, Sheriff Corey and Doctor Whatleigh were seated at the massive solid oak refectory table that occupied most of the cavernous kitchen.

With their four surviving children long grown and gone, George and Ellen Gantry preferred to eat meals chow hall style, where everyone who lived and worked on the ranch sat together as family. After she passed and the kids ceased visiting, George had opened up the bedrooms to his oldest, most trusted hands. The younger men all still slept in a spacious, well-kept bunkhouse connected to the big house by a covered passage. None of the men were married and no women lived on the premises. When Daisy had expressed curiosity at how a household of men functioned, George had invited her to come and see for herself.

Two of the six oldest men, now retired from working livestock, handled housekeeping and laundry with the diligence of a battalion of maids. Having served as chuckwagon cooks most of their working lives, another pair had competently transitioned into home cooking of a quality which Daisy had to admit rivaled her own efforts. The third pair were in charge of poultry and pigpens, vegetable garden, orchard and smokehouse.

It had never before occurred to Daisy to question what happened to cowboys when they grew too old and infirm to ride horses and punch cows or do any hard manual labor—men who hadn't any families to look after them in their sunset years. When she queried George as to where _his_ men would go, he regarded her with twinkling eyes. "Why… nowhere. This is their home as well as mine."

What, Daisy had wondered on the journey home, would become of her own men if they never married and had children and grandchildren. For that matter, what would become of her? Nearing eighty, her days were numbered, she knew. It was highly doubtful she'd outlive Slim and Jess—but she was in relatively good health and the females in her line were known for their longevity. She could only trust in the Lord to decide when it was her time to fly away.

########################

_**A moment of illumination…**_

But now it was Sunday midafternoon and the Gantry kitchen was deserted between dinner and supper. One of the cooks had brought coffee and pastries to the two men at the table, then vanished. The assistance of the doctor and the sheriff wasn't needed with whatever was going on outside.

Mort's men and Gantry's older but eager volunteers were looking after the horses and mules. The buckboard was being checked over to ensure all nuts and bolts were tightened. George and Jess were examining the Appaloosa, which had developed a troubling limp. Stone bruise, they decided between them. He'd have to be left behind. Jess allowed he'd ride the rest of the way on the buckboard.

As Mort had brought up the subject of their mutual long-time friend's aberrant behavior, Young Doc took the opportunity to brief him on Slim's condition and its attendant mental manifestations. The doctor watched as the sheriff seemed transfixed by his empty coffee cup, gazing into its depths as if expecting the grounds to arrange themselves into a portent.

"Finding anything interesting in there?" Young Doc teased. "Going on a long trip? A tall, dark and beautiful woman is coming into your life? You're coming into some money?"

"Huh? What?" Mort raised his head and shook out the cobwebs. "No, no… nothing like that… it's… I'm having an idea… more like a moment of illumination."

"Do tell," Young Doc urged softly. "Must be something profound. You look like you've been struck by lightning."

"I think I know why Slim's been acting the way he has."

"You're ahead of me, then. I sure would appreciate some insight, Mort. But before you say anything, I have to remind you of patient confidentiality, so I might not be able to answer any questions."

"How about if I just tell you what I know? Then you can draw your own conclusions."

"That'll work. Let's hear it."

########################

_**Honor impugned and redeemed…**_

"This goes back to Slim's father's death in 1863… before your time here, Fred," Mort began. "Slim was away fighting so he didn't hear about it until months later when he finally got word from his mother. What he _wasn't_ told—until he got home in late 1865—were the circumstances.

"Confederate raiders had commandeered a Union wagon train out of the Cheyenne armory, bearing a shipment of sixty thousand dollars in gold dust. The stage road didn't exist back then—just a primitive wagon track. Being unfamiliar with the territory, when they got to the Sherman farmhold they thought they'd need a local to get them across another pass. Before Matt and his hired hand realized who and what they were, he was coerced into serving as their guide. Instead of helping Matt, the other man turned tail and made it back to town where—in order to cover his own cowardice—he started the rumor Matt was a turncoat… a traitor. The Army was preparing to press charges but he died before that could happen."

"Wait… wasn't there an article in the paper last year?" Young Doc interrupted. "Something about Jess finding an old wagon, the Army getting involved, and a search party that explained the disappearance of the raiders and the gold? Wasn't Slim's father cleared of all accusations and awarded a medal posthumously?"

"Yes… because of a diary kept by one of the Reb officers proving Matt was blackmailed by threats to harm his family. Winter had already come to the high country and the Rebs weren't prepared to deal with a snowstorm. Matt easily led them astray far enough into the mountains they couldn't find their way back out. He was shot while escaping and died shortly after reaching home. The search party last year found skeletal remains of the Reb soldiers who froze or starved to death along with their horses."

Young Doc nodded, now thoroughly engrossed in Mort's narrative. "I believe I understand what you're working up to… but go ahead."

"Going back to 1865… when Slim was discharged and came home, he found his mother and baby brother living on the charity of those friends and neighbors who hadn't abandoned them due to his father's alleged treason. Mary Grace couldn't show her face in town. Many of the merchants refused to serve her, much less extend credit. The Shermans' closest friend, Jebediah Jones, had moved onto the ranch after his wife and daughter left him and the bank repossessed his failed farm. He'd been doing all the heavy work and taking care of the livestock so the mother and boy at least had milk, meat and eggs. He even hired out so they'd have money for other necessities. Mary Grace had been declining steadily and it was all she could do just to continue tutoring the boy. Jonesy'd taken over the cooking and housekeeping, too. This is what Slim came home to. You can probably imagine what happened next."

########################

_**Responsibility abrogated and reinstituted…**_

"Went off his feed, did he?"

"That's putting it mildly. Between being shunned as the son of a traitor and about to lose the family farm, he went crazy for a spell. Went through most of his mustering out pay drinking, gambling and fighting. Spent his share of nights in the lockup, too. It was during that time I moved here and signed on as deputy sheriff when that position came open."

"I'm finding that hard to envision, Mort. Since I've lived here, all I've ever seen is Mister Sobersides Citizen with an iron rod up his backside."

"You have to understand, I'm closer to Matt Senior's and Jonesy's generation than to Slim's. Our wives were real close friends, too. Jonesy and I made it our mission to get Slim cleaned up… and we did it, too, but it wasn't easy. The turning point came, I think, when Mary Grace passed away and Slim realized he was responsible for his little brother. He didn't have a profession other than farming and soldiering, so he _had_ to apply himself to saving the ranch. He started turning the other cheek whenever anyone brought up the traitor issue. He flat out refused to talk about it and, I'm pretty sure, even _think_ about it. He set out to be the best citizen he could be and people forgot as time went by. I'm not sure Andy even knew about it until it came up again last year. I know Daisy and Jess didn't.

"It's like Slim's had this whole nasty business buried deep inside, even though it's been cleared up, eleven years after the fact. It's as if the word 'traitor' and everything it means was a key that let this other personality out of the cage. I know I'm not explaining this very well. How're you reading it, Doc?"

"You've explained more than you know. This vendetta's starting to make sense now. I've been doing a bit of dabbling in an emerging field of medical science called 'psychology'—what makes people think and act the way they do. Since this isn't yet a recognized or accredited science, I'm going out on a limb here and claiming my opinion doesn't violate confidentiality…"

"And your opinion would be…?"

"That you've hit the nail on the head. In looking back, I'm realizing in most every instance I've heard of or personally witnessed where Slim has lost control of his temper, it's been related to an act or event that offends his code of honor. With his diminished cognitive sense due to the concussion, just the word 'traitor' could have been the trigger that lit his fuse."

"That was two weeks ago… why's he still blowin' hot an' cold?"

"My medical opinion is he hasn't fully recovered… and it'll be weeks before he is. In the meantime Slim's going to be irritable and difficult. There's still something missing, though… if his father wasn't the traitor, who was? Someone had to inform those raiders of the gold being moved."

Mort's eyebrows shot up. "I'd forgot about that! It turned out to be the officer who was second in command at the time—he collaborated with the enemy and masterminded the robbery. The Army closed ranks and covered it up, though, which is why there was nothing in the newspapers about it. The officer who _was_ in command was held accountable and cashiered. It couldn't be proved he'd had any part in it, but the odor of suspicion clung to him like stink on shit. His life was ruined. He at least has the satisfaction of knowing his name's been cleared, but what good does that do him now, after he's lost everything?"

One of Gantry's hands stuck his head in the kitchen door to inform them the mules were rested and the buckboard ready to move out. The two stood up and shook hands.

"This has been most helpful, Mort. I'll be studying on how to integrate this information with my treatment plan for Slim."

"The sooner you can fix him, Doc, the happier we'll all be. Daisy has the patience of a saint but even she has her limits. And Jess… well, I don't know how much more he can take before he bolts."

"You noticed that, too?"

"Seriously, Doc… we need Slim back before the wheels come off the coach."

"Good luck on the hunt."

"Same to you."


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25:_** BUCKBOARD PHILOSOPHY**

_**"****People are always afraid of anything different.  
They are afraid of change."**__ • Sandy Fussell_

_**Of bigotry and babies…**_

"I don't understand why in hell Lake doesn't make some attempt to improve this pig trail!" Young Doc swore through clenched teeth, as the buckboard rattled and bounced over deep ruts in dried mudholes. He'd already bitten his tongue once by opening his mouth at an inopportune moment. The metallic taste of blood lingered.

"He likes it this way," Jess said. "Discourages outsiders from botherin' 'im."

They didn't speak again until the road ahead smoothed out and appeared to be sufficiently pothole-free to permit conversation.

"I'm not an outsider," the doctor observed. "I was just up here two weeks ago. He was perfectly hospitable then. Always has been."

"Well, you're different from most white folks. He _likes _you on account of him bein' a…" Realizing what he'd been about to blurt out, Jess stopped in mid-sentence. "Sorry, Doc… no offense."

"None taken. I know what you mean. He's a halfbreed… like my kids. This baby about to enter the world—and any others they might have—will be only one-quarter white. Before Pearl and I married, we discussed the challenges our future children would face—should we decide to have any—no matter which culture they choose to inhabit as adults."

Jess darted a sideways raised-eyebrow glance at his companion. "Uh… I kinda thought babies came whether you wanted 'em or not?"

"Not so. There are ways, and there are ways… but thanks to the Comstock Act we aren't allowed to disseminate that information. Anyway, as you know, my sister and I grew up under the same roof with Lychee McNutt. His being half-Chinese was never an issue. I guess that's why I never really thought about Pearl being full-blood Chinese. She was just the girl I fell in love with and wanted to marry. Getting back to the children, though, Lychee's a prime example of what nurture and education can achieve… respected in both white and Chinese society. We want that for our kids. We want them to grow up proud of their dual heritage and in a position to enjoy the best of both worlds."

Jess nodded. "I don't reckon it worked like that for Cory. Slim says he always tried real hard to be one of us… you know… white—as long as his pa was still alive. Then that business with the half-brothers an' the town turnin' on him, that ruint 'im. Now he won't let anybody forget he's half-Cheyenne. Practically rubs their noses in it."

########################

_**Of racism and discrimination…**_

Young Doc shook his head. "Such is human nature and the vagaries of social evolution in this country, Jess. Integration is rarely seamless. Too often people like Cory don't have a choice. Discrimination exists and probably always will. Race, color, religion, ethnicity, culture, economic status—you name it, someone's going to hate it. Sometimes it's a combination of reasons."

"How so?"

"Maybe you're not aware anti-Chinese sentiment has been building up out here in the west for some time. Now railroad construction's over with, the white population is beginning to believe it's time they all went home, because they're taking up occupations that rightfully belong to folks of European descent. Except now the coal industry's taking off, all those thousands of Chinese workers are flocking to the mines at half the pay white men are demanding. They're not leaving. The only reason my family hasn't been subject to harassment is I'm a doctor and the town needs every one they can persuade to settle here."

"What'll you do when… if… trouble comes?"

"I have contingency plans for emergency resettlement if it comes to that."

"You'd just up and leave us?"

"Of course we would. Family comes first. Always."

"What about your pa-in-law, Lee Wing? You reckon they'll try an' run him outta town, too?"

Lee Wing was one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in town, with familial and business connections ranging all the way from Laramie to San Francisco, to the Sandwich Islands and beyond… all the way to China.

"Lee's rich as Croesus," the doctor chuckled. "He greases enough palms to ensure any attempt to do that will be feeble. Plus, if he were to shut down every one of his business interests, the town would lose a hefty percentage of its tax base and they can't afford that. I'm sure he _will _leave eventually… and when he does, my family goes too."

########################

_**Ambition and future planning…**_

"What about the ranch… the Rockin' W… an' all them retired cowboys?"

"Aunt Emmaline deeded over her share to Sally and me when she married Jonesy and left for St. Louis. My sister and I have already agreed to donate it to Our Lady of the Prairie church and convent."

"But you ain't even Catholic…"

"So what? They'll make better use of that property than anyone else we can think of. Father Sean and Reverend Mother Moira plan to expand the orphanage, enlarge the school and create a facility for old and disabled folks who have nowhere else to go, including the old men who're already living there."

"That's mighty generous of you, Doc, but where's the money gonna come from to keep it goin'?"

"Got a plan for that, too. We've already turned over a couple of acres for vegetables, enough to supply domestic needs and sell the excess to local greengrocers. The ranch never was big enough to support beef production, but it can manage half a dozen milkers, a piggery and a poultry operation. That should provide enough to satisfy milk, eggs and meat for the orphanage and rest home with some left over to sell or barter."

"Where you gonna get the hands to run this here shebang, Doc?"

"Where do you think? All those senior citizens have heads stuffed with practical knowledge going to waste. And there's that orphanage full of children who need teaching. Book learning is fine and dandy but they need the practical life skills they _would_ have learned from their parents… like looking after lifestock and growing their own food."

"Sounds mighty ambitious… if it works."

"Nothing wrong with ambition. With that and determination and elbow grease, we hope to build a self-sustaining community and generate income for other needs as well. Donations aren't enough. Those kids need clothes and medicine. So will the old folks."

"Merchants in town might not take kindly to you cuttin' into their businesses."

"We think they'll be supportive once they understand this arrangement will reduce their tax burden. Less money going to public welfare means more funding available to expand infrastructure and services… things like piped water, sewerage, paved streets and gas street lights. A proper police force. A high school. Maybe even a university some day. We want the orphanage to turn out healthy, educated children that will attract more adoptive parents… or, if not adopted, a future workforce with skills already in place to entice employers."

Young Doc had grown more and more effusive as he expounded on his pet project. And Jess had been so drawn into the overall brilliance of a scheme that would benefit homeless children such as he had been, he wasn't paying as close attention as he should have been to their surroundings.


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26:_** CRISIS MANAGEMENT**

_**"****When in danger or in doubt, run in circles,  
scream and shout." **__ • __Herman Wouk_

_**Attack of the mini-warriors…**_

The travelers suddenly found themselves accosted by figures on horseback that had materialized out of the tract of forest through which they were passing.

"Whoa!" Jess almost had his pistol drawn and cocked before his shocked brain registered the riding as children riding bareback. Indian children.

"Doctor Fred! Mister Jess!" shouted the gaggle of excited youngsters as they thronged around the buckboard, grinning to beat the band. "You bring sweets?"

His heart still pounding in his ears over the din, Jess removed his hand from the gun as a passel of youngsters no more than six or seven nimbly leaped from their ponies to the bed of the buckboard. Three promptly draped themselves around Young Doc's neck so he resembled a mother possum carrying her joeys. Another deftly monkeyed onto Jess' back and affixed itself to his gunbelt. He couldn't tell which were boys and which were girls—children that young dressed alike and they all looked the same to him. He couldn't remember any of their names. Young Doc didn't seem to have that problem. He managed to address each one by his or her anglicized moniker.

Jess was about to complain to the doctor that these children ought not to be riding around unsupervised and unprotected when he realized how close they were to the compound. The discussion had carried them to their destination without their even noticing. The main house was just out of view around the next curve in the track. Clucking to the team to set them off again, Young Doc pulled up near the corral where he and Jess took a good look around. No grown men in sight other than a pair of ancient elders smoking pipes and whittling. A cluster of pre-teen boys came forward to take charge of the horse and mules. Four older adolescent females were supervising a covey of toddlers playing in a sandpile with carved wooden animals. On the veranda of the main house, two toothless crones and three preteen girls engaged in beadwork.

Everything appeared normal except for the absence of the men and older teenage boys, and the stock horses that would normally be in the corral. The animals the children had ridden were small ponies and older animals past carrying the weight of an adult.

Young Doc clambered down from the seat with the children still clinging to his neck and shrieking in his ears. Jess's attachment wouldn't let go until he'd achieved ground level. Even then he had to peel it off and set it down, whereupon it promptly reattached itself to his leg. Persuading his limpets to drop off, the doctor opened the Gladstone bag he'd brought along and extracted a paper sack that elicited squeals of joy from the kids. Jess's leg was abandoned in a split second. He looked on with amusement as a gentle command from Young Doc inspired instant obedience among the supplicants. They lined up with admirable orderliness to receive their candies.

########################

_**Obstetrical issues…**_

A pair of pre-teen boys hurried to take charge of the mules, waving off Jess. Dan Twelvetrees appeared on the veranda, shaking hands with the arrivals as they came up the steps.

"Hey Jess. Wasn't sure you could make it but glad you're here. Fred, you have no idea how happy I am to see you." He looked more grave than glad. Certainly nothing like happy.

"Thought you'd be gone north by now," Young Doc said.

"I was going to… but in light of the situation…"

"What situation? Has Chelan already delivered?"

"No. Not yet. But she's been in labor over twenty-four hours. I'm fairly sure it's a breech. The women are positive and they're usually right. Hope I'm not stepping on your toes, Fred, but…"

"Not at all. I'm relieved you're here. I was thinking we had a couple more days to go. And anyway, I need to pick your brain on another matter but not right now. I'll go have a look. Be back in a few."

"Anything I can do?" Jess offered as they entered the house and Young Doc strode down a hall toward the lying-in room. "Boil water or somethin'?"

Dan grinned. "Naw. We got that under control. I'll send Calvin's granny out to talk to you. She'll want to know how he's doing, anyway. Her name's Ninovan."

"How could she already know about _that?"_ Jess squawked.

The doctor shrugged. "Tom-toms? Smoke signals? Messenger owls? Who knows?"

########################

_**A grandmother's notions…**_

Tall, stately, silver-haired Ninovan Elkhorn approached Jess with a pleasant expression and greeting to match. He'd seen her before but they hadn't met. He'd been expecting a weepy-eyed woman verging on hysteria and here she was, taking his hand and patting it as if it were _his_ boy who'd been shot.

"Come, let us sit. You would like coffee?"

"Yes ma'am. That'd be great."

In the steamy kitchen three copper cauldrons of boiling water gurgled on the stove along with the ubiquitous blue enameled coffee pot. She bade him sit before filling two mugs and seating herself. Sugar, cream and spoons were already on the table.

"Miz Elkhorn… I'm real sorry 'bout your son… uh, grandson…" Jess started.

"Please. I am Nina. You are Jess, blood brother to Slim who is blood brother to Cory?"

"Yes ma'am… I…"

"Nina only. My grandson, he is good?"

"He was shot, Miz… er… Nina. Right here." Jess pointed to his shoulder. "It went all the way through."

"I understand. But he is alive, still have arm. So he is good."

"If you say so. He tucked into a big breakfast this mornin' with Charlie an' Jimmy."

"His wound will be mark of honor for him, but not in good way, because it come from white gun. I do not want him to learn to hate, like Cory. This is very bad. What I should do?"

"Oh… um… well… you could tell him the man who shot him didn't do it because he's an Indian. It was a mistake. It was another white man he was tryin' to kill."

"My grandson was riding the spirit horse. Did this man think he was Fox-on-Fire?"

"I believe so, yeah."

"Why does this man wish to kill Fox?"

"We don't know. He… Fox… won't say why."

"Daniel and Mister Slim also wish Fox to die. Why?"

"They say he should be punished for somethin' very bad he did a long time ago."

"Fox is at your ranch?"

"Yeah… for a little while."

"But he is not good." More a statement than a question.

"No ma'am… Nina. He ain't good at all."

The woman sighed and looked sadder than she had about her grandson. "This I know. Daniel cannot see it is more than the bad air sickness."

"I ain't sure what you mean."

"The spirit of Fox-on-Fire wishes to be free. Three times I have seen this, but only for a moment. He does not speak, he does not see, he does not hear. In that moment is when his spirit tries to fly away, but he calls it back. He is not ready to let it go. Soon, but not yet."

Before Jess could ask her to elaborate, Hiawee and the two long-faced doctors entered the kitchen. Ninovan got up to fetch three more cups and the coffee pot. Another unfortunate influence visited on the natives by the white invaders, besides introducing them to firewater, was their unquenchable craving for caffeine.

########################

_**A difficult delivery is addressed…**_

"Is somethin' bad wrong with Missus Lake?" Jess drummed his fingers on the tabletop in anxiety, desperately hoping nothing was… not with Cory away from home.

"Do you know what a breech birth is, Jess?" Young Doc asked.

"Yeah, I reckon. My ma's last baby come that way—butt first. The cord was wrapped around her neck an' she died. Ma had a real hard time an' she almost died, too."

"That's our problem. Dan and I have to make a decision. Cory's the one who should, but he's not here to ask."

"What kinda decision?"

"Operate and take the baby by Caesarian section—that's cutting it out of her belly… or try to keep Chelan comfortable until she delivers… or she doesn't."

Jess was horrified. "You mean she might die?"

"No 'might' about it. If we operate, we save the baby and she has a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. If we do nothing, most likely we'll lose her _and_ the child."

"Why are you tellin' me this? It ain't my call."

"We know that. We're just trying to convince ourselves it has to be done. And soon."

"Did she say what _she_ wants to do?"

"She's adamant about saving the baby, at the expense of her own life if necessary."

Jess looked to the impassive faces of the Indian women. "What do _you_ say?" he pleaded. "How do your people handle something like this?"

Hiawee, less conversant in English, answered slowly. "In old days, baby not come, woman die. Baby, too. Some time cut baby out and baby live, but woman, no. White doctor say can take out baby and mother live also. We believe this can be. Ninovan and I say yes, do this. Cory would say do how Chelan want."

And so it was settled although Jess was filled with dread, imagining Cory's reaction at coming home to a dead wife.

########################

_**Taking a chance…**_

The kitchen was transformed into an operating theater. On the sideboard, Ninovan prepared a tray with a snowy white cloth on which Young Doc laid out his surgical instruments. Dan and Haiwee cleared off the table, wiping it and all adjacent surfaces with carbolic solution. A mattress pad was created of folded quilts. Jess was detailed to round up all the kerosene lanterns, trim the wicks and make sure they were filled. Hung in a row from ceiling hooks over the table, they lit the scene as brightly as a stage proscenium.

The doctors were talking quietly.

"Last call, Dan. You ready to go through with this?"

"Have you ever done this before, Fred?"

"Yes… but under hospital conditions. Not like this. You?"

"No. I've observed it done on cadavers in school but this will be my first as attending."

"Let's get her, then."

Chelan was weak with exhaustion when they carried her from the bedroom, but she managed a ghost of a smile for Jess and a whispered, _'See you on the other side'._


	27. Chapter 27

_Chapter 27:_** THE OTHER SIDE**

_**"****The video they show in birthing class can make a  
Quentin Tarentino film look like a Disney movie"**__ • __Unattributed_

_**The press-ganged anesthetist…**_

Jess was in a panic, having been informed he would be assisting.

"Somebody has to administer anesthesia. Tag. You're it. Scrub up." Young Doc pointed at the basin of carbolicized water.

"I can't… I can't do it."

"You can. You will. Come on. Man up. You've dug out arrows and bullets and seen as much blood and guts as the rest of us. This won't even be as gory as you think."

"It ain't that… it's… it's…"

"Don't worry about being exposed to any unauthorized lady parts. All you'll see is a big brown dome surrounded by white sheets. Look… here's the cotton gauze and here's the chloroform. This is what you do."

_I'm gonna piss myself, throw up or pass out…_

In the end Jess elected to keep his eyes firmly focused on Chelan's fluttering eyelashes and his ears closed to the doctors' muttered commentary. Only when the atmosphere was shattered by the sharp squall of an outraged infant did he look up to see the squirming red scrap coated in waxy white goop being handed over to Ninovan. She and her cohort immediately scooted away with their slippery wailing prize to clean it up and make it presentable for the new mother when she awakened.

"You there! Pay attention. We're not done yet."

The next few minutes seemed interminable until Young Doc announced the final suture was in place and Jess could remove the chloroform-soaked pad. He was feeling woozy when the doctor slapped him heartily on the back, nearly knocking him off his stool.

"You done good, son. Take a bow."

What Jess did was take a header right to the floor.

########################

_**An obstetrical challenge successfully met…**_

Stepping around the inert body, Young Doc and Doctor Dan gently restored the patient to her own bed. Dan stayed with her, checking her vitals, until she awakened enough to receive her baby. The women then kicked him out in order to get on with women's business… tidying up the new mother with fresh garments and helping her get started with nursing.

Dan wandered into the parlor where Young Doc had dumped Jess on the sofa.

"Did he hurt himself?" Dan inquired solicitously, tucking a pillow under Jess's head.

"Oh probably. He always manages to, somehow." Spotting a folded blanket on a chair, Young Doc snapped it open and laid it over their press-ganged and now anesthetized anesthesiologist. "I won't know until he wakes up and tells me about it. _If _he tells me about it."

"I thought he was made of sterner stuff than this," Dan chuckled, checking Jess's pulse.

"He usually is. It was the chloroform got to 'im, although you have to admit… this procedure probably exceeded his realm of experience."

"It did mine, that's for sure," Dan said ruefully. "What next?"

"Don't know about you but I need coffee and a clean shirt."

"I doubt I've got anything that'll fit you, Fred."

"I always carry a spare. Figured I'd be here overnight anyway."

Returning to the scene of triumph, the doctors found a restoration crew in progress—the teenage girls they'd earlier seen outside—under the direction of a young woman with impeccable English and a musical voice. She glided over to bar entrance to the kitchen.

"Give us a few minutes, doctors… and your soiled shirts. We will take care of those. There will be fresh coffee directly… and supper."

"You a mind reader now, Waynoka?" Young Doc chuckled, shucking off his shirt. "My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

"Supper?" Dan repeated hopefully, stripping his off as well. "Where? I don't smell any food."

"While you were working a miracle, the sun went down and Ninovan's daughter prepared venison stew at her cabin. Hiawee's mother is making fry bread."

########################

_**A post-op review with pot…**_

The veranda was cold and shrouded in darkness. The compound was deserted under diamond-bright stars studding the heavens. Lamplight shone through the windows of the other cabins but none spilled from the main house, where all the shades had been pulled down and the curtains drawn. Bundled against the chill in heavy coats, the doctors occupied the rockers previously employed by the bead-working crones. Both had their pipes lit and were enjoying the mild euphoria brought on by a carefully formulated mixture of kinnikinnick, ditchweed and Virginia's finest brightleaf nicotiana. Having full bellies helped, too.

"Enough to take the edge off," Young Doc pronounced, puffing contentedly, "but not enough to impair performance."

"I'm sorry for my cousin but it was a unique learning opportunity for me," Doctor Dan observed. "I expect I'll have to deal with other cases like this when I take up my new post on the rez."

"We're not out of the woods yet," Young Doc reminded his fellow obstetrician. As soon as Chelan's attendants had allowed them back into the room, they'd been checking on their patient in fifteen-minute rotations. "She's holding her own for the present. She's young and healthy and we were as aseptic as we could possibly be, under the circumstances."

"I wish I felt as optimistic."

The front door creaked open and Jess slipped out, shrugging into his sheepskin jacket. "Got anythin' for headache? I got me a whomper." He settled himself on the top step, taking in deep breaths to chase away the residual grogginess.

"Warned you to turn your head away when inhaling, didn't I?" Young Doc snarked unsympathetically. He turned to Dan. "New gaspassers never listen. I've lost as many as four in a row during a single procedure." Turning back to Jess, he tossed over a leather drawstring pouch. "This'll fix you right up. There's a packet of rolling papers in there, too."

In short order, Jess was feeling pretty dadgummed fine himself—fine enough to start remembering why he was here in the first place, which brought on a new wave of anxiety. "No sign a Cory or any a his men?"

"Nope."

"Don't s'pose you'd tell me where he's at even if you knew, would you, Dan?"

"Nope. Sure wouldn't. And, in any case, I don't know."

"I gotta stop him, Dan… before he leaves any more callin' cards in town. You gotta help."

"What makes you think I have any influence?"

"I just need you to help me find 'im."

"Be reasonable. I'm an employee of the federal government. I can't afford to be involved."

A light cloud cover was moving in, obscuring the starlight so the porch sitters could make out only a dim outline of one another. A glum silence fell, broken only by Young Doc's bearlike yawn that ended in a grunt. "One of us needs to stand first vigil with our little mother. Wanna flip a coin, Dan, see who goes first?"

"Uh… who's nighthawkin' the ranch?" Jess cut in.

"Cory said there's no need," Dan said. "Those men won't be coming around here again. That's why he didn't leave any guards—just me, because he knew Chelan's time was near."

"I know the rule about unrelated men bein' alone with your womenfolk an' such, but I'd be glad to take that first turn sittin' with her while you two grab some sleep," Jess offered.

"Let me think about this a minute," Dan said, and he did. "Here's how I see it. Slim and Cory are blood brothers. And you and Slim are practically brothers. I think we can bend the rules enough to accommodate an honorary blood brother. Besides, you won't be alone with her. Nina and Hiawee are going to spell each other, too—mainly to take care of the baby. I'm beat, so I'm happy to take you up on that offer… if the women agree when we go in."

Jess wasn't through. "If you an' me can rotate the sittin' an' let Young Doc sleep through, that'd be even better. He stayed up all last night with Ruairí… Fox, that is."

########################

_**A grim prognosis…**_

"That so? Second wave, was it, Fred?" With Dan's inquiry the conversation then segued to their patient-in-common.

"Apparently. I'd say it's quartan but won't know for sure for a couple more days," Young Doc said. "Since I've got you here, though, can you walk me through what happened?"

"Not much to tell." Dan paused to refill his pipe. "It was dark when I got to him. He was just transitioning from hypothermic to febrile, and remained conscious only long enough to tell me about the malaria. I stayed with him but slept most of the time. Didn't have any quinine so the best I could do was keep him topped off with willowbark tea. In the morning he exhibited the usual aftereffects—muscle weakness, cephalalgia, and so on—but after a couple of hours recouped enough to ride unaided."

Young Doc was quiet for spell. "Jess mentioned that you and… er… Fox had a prior acquaintanceship."

"What's Jess told you about it… how far back did he go?" Dan bridled, decidedly defensive.

"Enough. But what I want to know is, when you last met—before this time, I mean—how did he seem, physically?"

"He appeared to be in excellent physical condition, what little I saw of him at Cory's place. We steered clear of each other for a few days and then he left. That would've been, oh… at the beginning of summer. Why?"

Young Doc again hesitated. "Going back to earlier this week, did you encounter any abnormalities… say, of a cardiological nature?"

Something in Young Doc's tone caught the other's attention. "Now that you mention it, I thought I detected some arrhythmia but in the circumstance couldn't be certain. I'm afraid my attention was taken up with Slim and his condition," Dan admitted, again asking, "Why do you ask? Did you?"

"I did," Young Doc affirmed. "Bradycardia at first, then tachycardia with the fever."

"Well, that's not too unusual."

"I thought so, too, Dan… yesterday."

"But not today?"

"Not as of the time we left Sherman's."

Unshared thoughts floated between the two medical men. _What does it matter if the man perishes of some undiagnosed heart condition? He's doomed anyway._

"How's Slim doing by the way?" Dan changed the subject.

"He'll be up to snuff in no time. If Jess or Daisy don't strangle him in the meantime," Young Doc added, chortling.

"My diagnosis was mild frontal lobe damage. Yours?"

"Same. He's been awful. Just awful. And being hampered with that broken arm makes it ten times worse, hasn't it, Jess? _Jess?"_

"So much for him pulling first shift!" Dan laughed softly.

Heaving his bulk from the rocker, Young Doc tamped out his pipe on the railing. "Come on. You get one arm, I'll get the other."

"Where are we going?"

"My bedroom. There's two beds in there. I'll take first watch."

"I'll let you."


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter 28:_** MEETING WAYNOKA**

_**"****Concentrate all your thoughts on the work at hand."**__ • __Alexander Graham Bell_

_**WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15th…**_

Jess gradually rose to full wakefulness with the sensation of floating, boneless as a ferret, on a cloud of feathers. He deliberately avoided opening his eyes until his other senses synchronized to inform him of his location, which for damned sure wasn't in his own bed in his own bedroom in the Sherman ranch house. The bed was too comfortable, for one thing. His face rested against an alien, satiny-soft pillow. The comforter tucked around him and pulled up to his chin was of an unfamiliar woven fabric. Clean, fresh air flowed from a sash window opened just a hair, bringing with it the tangy scents of pine and autumn-dried artemesia. A hint of cooking smells was accompanied by a low hum of conversation from elsewhere in the house beyond a closed door. In the adjacent bed, someone was snoring… and it wasn't Slim.

Jess cranked open his eyelids and sat up, needing to piss like a racehorse. Throwing off the comforter and swinging his legs off the bed, he found his bare toes sinking into the luxurious depths of a bearskin rug. He didn't remember coming into this room, stripping down to his longhandles and crawling into bed. In fact, the last thing he _did_ remember was being outside on the veranda with the two doctors.

A quick look around assured Jess this was a conventional bedroom, containing all the traditional attributes of a prairie settler's home—twin beds, a night stand, a clothes press, a chest of drawers, a washstand with pitcher and basin, two oil lamps, two framed Currier & Ives prints on the walls and a pair of chintz curtains on the window. Under each bed and of chief interest at the moment were blue-and-white double-handled glazed porcelain chamber pots with lids.

Preparing to dress, Jess was disconcerted to find his clothes neatly folded on a chair and his boots parked with precision underneath. He was a strewer, not a folder… or a hanger, for that matter. Obviously, _someone else_ had marched him in here, undressed him and tucked him in. He fervently hoped that someone had been Fred or Dan rather than one of the Indian ladies. Most likely Young Doc, his roomie, who hadn't stirred even when Jess rolled up the shade and let light flood the room.

########################

_**The woman in the kitchen…**_

Decently clad except for his boots, Jess padded down a hallway with the pitcher, in search of hot water with which to shave. He followed his nose to the east-facing kitchen, now cheerfully lit by morning sunlight through a double bank of windows. Instead of one of the older women he was expecting—Ninovan or Hiawee—he found a younger one kneading dough at a countertop. Her waist-length blue-black hair was pulled back from her face into a single plait and bound with a red ribbon. A white bib apron just like Daisy's protected a white campesina blouse with multi-colored embroidery, flowing over a plain black full skirt. When she turned toward him, he was instantly captivated by lustrous brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a full-lipped smile revealing perfect white teeth.

In this instance unsure of the prohibition against gender proximity and fraternization, Jess stood in the hall doorway, shifting from foot to foot. "Good morning, miss… is it… ah… okay to come in? Just need some hot water to… uh… you know?" He rubbed his stubbled chin.

She studied him for a moment, then chuckled. "Good morning to you, too. Unless you're planning on ravishing me on the kitchen table, I believe you're safe enough. Help yourself." She pointed to a pair of copper kettles steaming on the stove. Before he could get to the water, she wiped her hands on her apron and thrust a floury paw in his direction, throwing him into a quandary. Women generally didn't shake hands upon introduction, especially Indian women. Jess knew when a lady offered a hand in a certain way, palm down, a gentleman was supposed to bow over it, barely touching fingers and sometimes kissing her knuckles… or pretend to kiss them, anyway. _This_ hand was presented vertically, thumb up, quite obviously waiting to be shaken… so he did.

"I'm Waynoka Twelvetrees, by the way. You must be Jess Harper." She had a warm, firm grip.

"Yes, ma'am. That's me. I don't recall seein' you around here before." This close he could plainly see she was past the first flush of maidenhood—probably closer to his own age if crow's feet and laugh lines fine as cobwebs were any indication. He wouldn't have described her as beautiful, but—to his credit—he'd learned long ago youthful physical beauty was oftentimes transitory and shallow… and maturity had its own rewards.

"That's because I don't live here. I'm a transient like Dan."

"Oh… uh… you his missus, then?"

"Not hardly. I'm his sister—on my way to teach at the mission school at Wind River." She nodded toward the coffeepot. "Coffee's fresh. Take a cup back with you while you shave. I'll have breakfast ready for you when you get back. Oh… and tell that great lump of a doctor to shake a leg."

Jess thanked her, filled his pitcher and cautiously retreated from her vicinity. It was entirely too early in the morning to try exercising his charms—not that he had any such intentions. It was just that when his brain wasn't up to speed with his libido, his mouth often got him into trouble.

########################

_**Conscripted again…**_

Young Doc was struggling into his britches and cursing under his breath when Jess got back to the room. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"No use barkin' at me. Just now woke up my own self. Dan must've stood up all night."

"No… I took first shift and was _supposed_ to take third. Damn fool! When he gets up on that reservation he's going to have to learn to pace himself or he'll burn out in no time. Where've _you _been?"

"Gettin' hot water so's we can shave. There's a girl… uh… a woman in the kitchen."

"Should've known! That for me? Mighty Christian of you!" Young Doc relieved Jess of his coffee, tossed it down and burped.

"You're welcome," Jess muttered, pouring hot water into the enameled basin and tempering it with cold water from a ewer standing off to the side.

"I'll go first, you don't mind. Gotta relieve Dan… assuming we have a live patient to monitor."

Jess rolled his eyes in annoyance. "If she hadn't a made it, we woulda heard keenin' what'd make your ears fall off."

At that moment the lusty squalls of a desperate infant rolled down the hallway and in through the open door of the bedroom.

Young Doc grinned widely. "At least we've got a bouncing baby boy to present to the chief whenever he gets through decimating white undesirables."

Jess groaned. "Please! This ain't no jokin' matter. Cory's liable to get himself an' all his people here in a world a hurt if he gets caught."

"I know. I know. Sorry. But look here… you go out and find him today and tell him about his new son. Betcha that'll bring him back home on the double."

"Ya think?"

"I know. Nothing like that firstborn child to bring a man back to earth and contemplate his mortality."

"If you say so."

########################

_**Chelan makes demands… and gives her blessing…**_

"Chelan want to see you, and for you to see baby." Ninovan stood in the doorway as Jess was toweling his face and hands. Young Doc had marched off to the outhouse leaving the door open.

"Me?" Assuming access to Chelan and a brand new infant would be restricted, he hadn't even asked for permission to visit.

"Having baby not same as being sick. She hurt, yes… but very happy to be alive, very proud of son for her husband. You come now."

"Uh… yes… okay." Jess hung the towel and obediently followed the Indian woman down the hall. The bedroom was in disarray and Hiawee was bustling around, setting it to rights. Someone had slept on a pallet on the floor and someone else—probably Doctor Dan—had made himself comfortable in a wing chair brought in from the parlor. Blankets and pillows were piled on it.

Chelan was sitting up in bed with the swaddled infant in her arms, looking quite pleased with herself. "Come see what we accomplished last night."

"We? Oh no… I had nothin' to do with it… you… him…"

"You were there. You helped achieve the impossible and kept pain from stealing away my spirit… and my son's."

Jess couldn't tell if she truly believed that or was just stringing him along for the fun of it. "I'm sure happy everything turned out okay."

"Would you like to hold him?"

"NO! I mean… no thanks." It had been years since he'd held a newborn. A Sioux baby had been abandoned on the Sherman doorstep and everyone residing in the ranch house at the time had been recruited to help care for her—including the recently retired gunfighter. There was something soul-soothing in the experience… as long as the infant was dry, smelled nice and wasn't hollering its little head off.

Advancing close enough to peer at the wrinkled red face topped with a thatch of jet-black hair, Jess offered the appropriate compliments. Yes, he was the prettiest baby ever… looked just like his daddy.

Chelan reached out and caught Jess by the shirtsleeve. "When you find Cory, tell him the spirit of his mother came to me in a vision and begs him to return home. If that doesn't work, tell him the angel of death is hovering over this house until he gives up this mad quest. Or make that the ghost of his father."

Catching the mischievous glint in her eye, Jess couldn't help grinning. "Yeah, right. He'll laugh in my face."

"How about if you just tell him his wife—the mother of his son—demands he get his butt home with all due haste_… or else there will be consequences."_

"That oughta do it."

"What're you hanging around here for, then? Bring my man home safely, Jess Harper!"


	29. Chapter 29

_Chapter 29:_** THE RINGER**

_**"****Well behaved women rarely make history."**__ • Eleanor Roosevelt_

_**A horse for Jess…**_

At breakfast the subject of how Jess was going to ride anywhere came up. Expecting to have use of one of Lake's saddle horses, he hadn't borrowed one from Gantry's remuda.

"Guess I'll hafta take the buckboard back to Gantry's and start from there after all," he griped over the fried potatoes.

"You can use my horse," Dan offered. "I'm not going anywhere. Pass the ham, please."

"Didn't see no horse when we come in yesterday. Trade you for some a them scrambled eggs."

"Wasn't expecting to need him anytime soon so he's out in the pasture, not in the corral or the barn. Any currant jelly left?"

"Much obliged, Dan." Jess recalled the doctor had ridden up to the canyon on a nicely proportioned chestnut animal with a star, similar to Slim's Alamo. "Say, these're some mighty fine biscuits… light as a feather."

"I tell Noki you say so," Ninovan said from her post at the stove. "She learn white woman cooking from book."

Young Doc said, "I'd like to stick around another day or so if Slim can do without the buckboard that long."

"Don't reckon he'll mind. Anybody needs to go to town can always use the spring wagon."

With Jess's immediate problem resolved, the two doctors fell to discussing last night's parturition drama and the importance of maintaining a sanitary field until the incision had healed with no evidence of sepsis. Dangerous-sounding words buzzed over the table—potassium permanganate solution, carbolated soap, hydrogen peroxide, iodoform. Jess figured he caught the gist—which was both were cautiously optimistic about the success of their mutual endeavor. They agreed to keep close eyes on mother and child and cross-check their observations. Total bedrest was the order of the week. Ninovan and Hiawee were appointed ward matrons to ensure no unclean hands or objects disturbed the hygienic environment. No unauthorized personnel were to enter the room—only the two doctors and the two nurses.

Admitting she had allowed Jess entry at Chelan's request, Ninovan received a mild scolding.

"You didn't touch anything, did you, Jess?" Young Doc glowered. "Or her or the child?"

"Hey… I was clean… just washed my hands. Besides, I didn't touch nothin'. She grabbed aholt of my sleeve, though, right here." Jess pointed.

"I guess that wasn't too bad… as long as there was no skin contact."

Excluding Jess, the conversation moved on to various health issues involving other ranch residents. Doctor Dan was planning to catch up on his missed sleep while Young Doc held the fort, so to speak. Jess tuned out the medical jargon in order to focus on his own concerns, such as… where had that girl disappeared to? She'd still been in the kitchen when he'd returned, along with Young Doc. Then Ninovan had appeared and the girl had melted away while he was shoveling in the vittles.

_This is ain't the time nor the place, buddy. You got more important things to be worryin' about. An' if Doctor Daniel Twelvetrees catches you droolin' over his sister, why, he'll skin you alive_ _an' lift your scalp!_

########################

_**An ill-favored horse…**_

Dan suddenly recalled that the horse originally assigned to him for the duration of his stay at the ranch—the one he'd ridden up to the canyon—had been taken on the hunt and replaced with the only one left in the reserve remuda.

"I haven't actually _had_ to ride that one yet… thank all gods."

"Whaddya mean by that?"

"Well, his name's 'Scratch'… as in 'Old Scratch'? He's the devil, all right."

"Oh… you mean one a them broncs what needs a little attitude adjustment first?" Jess snorted derisively. "I can deal with that."

"No… I'm talking about a thoroughly evil disposition. He's fine with women and girls… gentle as a lamb. It's men he doesn't like. But he's all there is right now, so good luck."

"I'll take my chances." _I've rode some pretty mean broncs in my time… how bad can this one be?_

_Two _horses were already saddled and tethered to the corral fence—one inside and one outside—when Jess bounded down the veranda steps with his kit and saddlebags. Halfway there, he stopped in dismay. The first thing that galloped through his mind was an old saying he'd heard many, many times over the years from horse dealers: _'One white foot, buy him; two white feet, try him; three white feet, be on the sly; four white feet, pass him by.'_ Jess wasn't particularly superstitious but he'd never owned a horse with four white socks and never rode one unless he had no choice. Today, he had no choice.

Obviously, the larger animal on the inside of the corral was meant for him—a rangy strawberry roan gelding with a skimpy mane and tail, a narrow blaze and four white socks. The second, on the outside, was a compact dun mare. An Indian youth in denims and an untucked blue calico pueblo shirt with a hat pulled low was fiddling with the mare's saddle. He didn't look up or speak as Jess opened the corral gate and made to throw the saddlebags and gear into place.

"You might wanna ride some of the meanness out of him before you do that." The voice was low and guttural.

"Ain't got time to court 'im."

"Whatever."

"You ridin' with me?"

"Yup."

Jess hadn't planned on or anticipated needing a guide but couldn't see any harm in it. He went ahead with his own last minute checks—seating the saddlebags and tying on the bedroll, adjusting the stirrups and snugging down the cinch. The first hint of trouble was when he went to undo the lead rope and the gelding snaked his head around and nipped him—right in that tender place above his right elbow. _So that's how it's gonna be, huh?_ Jess looped the lead rope to the off side and dallied it around the horn so Scratch couldn't turn his head to the left.

Scratch being at least two hands taller than Traveller, Jess could see his usual skip-and-hop mounting method wasn't going to work here. Just about the time he hiked his left foot up and into the stirrup, Scratch do-si-doed sideways, leaving Jess hopping on the other foot. After the second attempt with the same result, Jess maneuvered him to where his off side was parallel to the fence and there was nowhere to move. This time Scratch cow-kicked his would-be rider in the side of the knee. Hissing in pain, Jess managed to launch himself into the saddle before the horse could rebalance himself for a second try.

Scratch suddenly went rigid. When Jess eased up on the tie rope and gave him just a little bit of slack rein, the animal obediently moved forward. In the meantime the Indian youth had draped his forearms along the top rail. Only his eyes were visible between them and his hat brim. As horse and rider ambled past, Jess grinned at the observer.

"See, ya just gotta show 'im who's…" The sentence went unfinished as Old Scratch and his rider went airborne.

########################

_**A one-man rodeo…**_

Young Doc had followed Jess out to the veranda to indulge in an après-breakfast cheroot in the fond delusion that what his wife didn't know about she couldn't rip into him about. In reality, Pearl—née Wing Mingzhu—had known for years about the humidor cached in the livery stable where they boarded their horses. However, she'd learned early from her mother Liu—or Willow in English—it was prudent to let your man savor a few little relatively harmless secret vices in the expectation those would prove satisfying enough to deter him from venturing into great big unforgivable ones.

The rocking chairs were already occupied by the oldsters and their beadwork so, after lighting up, the doctor leaned his elbows on the railing and observed his friend Jess preparing to depart on his mission.

A few minutes later, Doctor Dan emerged from the house and joined him. "Got another one of those desiccated donkey dicks?"

Young Doc expelled a perfect smoke ring. "You're wrong. It's not at all dry." Fishing another from a vest pocket, he handed it over. "Thought you were going straight to bed."

"And miss the show? No way!" Dan set a match to the cheroot and inhaled deeply.

"What show?"

"Watch and see." Dan grinned smugly.

They groaned in harmony as Jess's spectacular parabolic arc ended with a resounding thud on the packed earth of the corral. Behind them, the old crones cackled. Young Doc straightened up in alarm but Dan stayed his hand. "No. Not yet. Not unless he doesn't get up."

Three times more Scratch unseated his rider, with Young Doc's apprehension increasing with each crash landing. "If I have to tote that boy home with broken bones Slim will never forgive me. Worse, what if that deranged beast stomps him to death?"

"Ah… Scratch isn't vicious. He's just having a little fun. Pretty soon he'll get bored and try another routine."

As promised, the gelding embarked on a new tactic. Instead of waiting for his rider to get aboard before going into rodeo mode, he began circling the perimeter of the corral at a trot… just out of reach. When Jess attempted to cut across the arena to intercept him, Scratch swapped directions on a dime. At some point in his sorry life, someone must have trained him to cut cattle.

Exercising his considerable vocabulary while continuing his pursuit of the canny animal, Jess was now hampered by a visible limp. The androgynous youth leaning on the fence, apparently deciding enough was enough, opened the gate and walked in. The horse came straight to him. Without further fanfare, the kid walked Scratch right out the gate, leaped aboard and aimed him toward the wagon track. Jess stood there for a moment with his mouth hanging open, then gimped over to the mare and climbed up with some difficulty. The dun had to double time to catch up with the roan's long-legged stride.

The doctors watched the pair until the bend in the road took them out of sight.

"Who's the kid?" Young Doc queried. "I thought all the able-bodied men were out vanquishing the white peril?"

"Not all," Dan replied, stubbing out his stogie. "There're always a few riding fence and checking on stock in outlying pastures. Must have been one of those. Or maybe just one of the younger teenagers, tall for his age but not old enough to fight. Anyway, I'm for bed. Wake me whenever you need a break."

"Will do. Tell Ninovan I'll be in to see Chelan after I've washed up."

Young Doc finished his cigar, wishing he'd insisted on giving Jess a once-over before letting him ride off. The man had to be bunged up pretty badly to be limping like that and needing both hands to drag himself onto the back of a short horse. On the other hand, Jess wouldn't have welcomed being fussed over in the presence of the youngster. Getting thrown four times in a row was embarrassing enough as it was and, anyway, he wouldn't have admitted to being hurt.

The doctor sighed and went back into the house.

########################

_**Jess has suspicions…**_

Jess's pride wasn't just stung… it was shredded. The kid riding ramrod straight just ahead hadn't moved a muscle or said a word during the whole debacle. When afterward he strolled into the corral all nonchalant and summoned the roan like a pet dog, Jess's mortification was complete. He was bending over to pick up his crushed hat when the kid exited with the horse, mounted and rode off, leaving him with the mare.

The dun had a smooth purposeful gait and no problem keeping up with Scratch once she found her rhythm. Like a well-trained trail horse, she fell in a length behind the gelding and seemed content to stay there. Jess cataloged his newly-acquired list of aches and pains while waiting for his humiliation to subside. Everything he owned hurt from a raw scrape on his left jawbone to the insistent throbbing in his right knee and ankle—the same one he'd injured on that fishing trip with Andy. Young Doc'd warned him that ligaments and tendons torn that badly would never again be as firmly attached, and that good supportive footwear was imperative. A stitch in his side suggested a broken rib, or at least a cracked one. He imagined he'd loosened a couple of teeth. And just when his black eye was starting to clear up, he'd have a whole new collection of bruises.

On top of all of that, Jess was still a bit muzzy-headed from the last whisper of chloroform in his veins. Or perhaps it was the result of repeated collisions between skull and ground. Either way, his thoughts were skittering in all directions and this made him grouchy.

They'd ridden little more than a mile from the ranch when a nodule of suspicion crept uninvited into Jess's admittedly less than orderly thought processes. _What was it Dan said about that bastard horse? 'He's fine with women an' girls… gentle as a lamb. It's men he don't like.'_ The more Jess studied the rear-view silhouette of the rider ahead of him, the more that suspicion blossomed into certainty.

"Hey you… hold up there!" Jess called out.

In response, the rider picked up the pace with a nudge of his heels to the roan's side.

"Slow down… I wanna talk to you."

The roan broke into a trot.

"Are you deaf or somethin'? _I SAID STOP!" _he shouted.

The trot escalated to a brisk lope.

Furious now, Jess made the mistake of spurring the mare's flanks. She sprang forward so swiftly he almost rolled off backwards. She shot past the gelding and up the road a good dozen lengths before Jess finally managed to get her under control and bring her to a halt. When the roan pulled up beside them and stopped, Jess reached over and pulled off the other rider's straw hat. A blue-black plait spilled out.

A girl flashed him a cheeky grin. "Surprise!"

########################

_**Unveiling of the ringer…**_

"YOU!" Jess bellowed.

"In the flesh," Waynoka replied merrily.

"What the hell you think you're doin'?" Jess demanded.

"Duh… riding. With you. Just like you asked and I said."

"You ain't comin' with me. No way, no how!" Jess yelled.

"But I'm already here," she pointed out unnecessarily.

"Git. Go on. Go home!" Jess sputtered. "Who said you could come along, anyway?"

"No one _said._ I decided. You need me."

"I don't need no girl gettin' in my way."

"How big do _women _get where you come from, Jess Harper?"

"Girl, woman… don't make no never mind. Geez… Dan's gonna hit the ceiling!"

"Daniel is not my father or my husband. He doesn't tell me what to do."

"Cory, then… Cory won't want no female hornin' in on his raidin' party."

"There isn't going to _be_ a raiding party, remember? You're going to talk him out of it."

"Then whadda I need you for?"

"Glad you asked. The reason _you_ need _me_ is… _I_ know where he is and _you_ don't. How 'bout them road apples?"

Jess shut up and blinked. "You do?"

"I do. And if you don't want to blunder around for forty years like Moses in the wilderness, you'll apologize."

"I… er… uh… I don't need your help. I can find 'im on my own," Jess blustered… but weakly.

"In time to stop an uprising? I think not. Come on. We'll talk while we ride. And give me back my hat."

Jess handed back the hat in numb resignation. This time, when Scratch moved forward, Jess reined the mare to walk abreast.

_Why do I keep gettin' hung up with these hard-headed women think they know everythin' an' can do everythin' good as a man? It ain't natural. Why can't I meet some nice, quiet, shy girl with a little voice. One what won't argue an' try to boss me around._


	30. Chapter 30

_Chapter 30:_** THE CHICKEE HUT**

_**"****In a well-ordered universe, camping  
would take place indoors."**__ • __Morgan Matson_

_**The overlook…**_

The 'talk' didn't yield any useful information and eventually Jess had to drop back to tandem position when the woman veered off the wagon track onto a game trail meandering through tall timber. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of open sky through the dense overstory, but never enough to gauge their direction by the sun's position. Although he'd forgot to wind his timepiece, he speculated they'd been traveling about two hours, generally west-southwest. The trees began thinning out and all at once they arrived at a promontory overlooking the coulees and rolling slopes descending to the Laramie basin. The town itself was still many miles away, but far below the stage road ribboned through the landscape in the early afternoon sunlight. Now able to orient himself geographically, Jess was shocked to realize how close they were to the Sherman homestead. If Cory's band were lurking in the area, then the marauders must also be in the vicinity. And Waynoka had been right—he wouldn't have thought to start looking for them this far west.

They pulled up for a breather and Waynoka called for a dismount.

"How far now?" Jess asked, struggling to maintain a bland expression every time a pain shot up his leg or an abused muscle elsewhere screamed for mercy. He'd be so stiff and sore by nightfall he'd be unable to squat. Morning didn't even bear thinking about—what if he needed assistance saddling and climbing onto his horse? Probably Cory and every buck in the band would know right away why he was on the mare and the girl on that crazy-ass gelding.

Waynoka was hunkered down, surveying the scenery below and idly undoing her plait. "In the old days, this used to be the staging area for Cory's mother's people when preparing to raid the settlers. It's not as easy to find as it would seem. The braves could swoop down there with little advance warning, do their thing, then run right back up here for a leisurely celebratory powwow at tea time."

"Didn't come for no history lesson," Jess grumbled, afraid to sit for fear he wouldn't be able to stand up again. "You ain't plannin' on makin' camp here, are you?"

"Maybe. Depends if they know we're here." Waynoka got to her feet and stretched. "They might be watching and backtracking to see if we have any followers. If they don't come for us by dusk, then it'll be daybreak."

"You sound real sure about that. What if they don't?"

"Then we camp for the night and ride on tomorrow until they DO find us."

"You said you knew where to look," Jess sniped, trying not to sound whiny.

"I do. This is it. More or less. One night won't make that much of a difference." She turned and graced him with a beatific smile before plopping herself down on a convenient boulder.

Jess' heart caught in his throat at the curtain of shining black hair streaming in the wind. _One night. Alone. Just the two of us. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT. Her and me. Just us two. Alone. DO. NOT. THINK. ABOUT. IT._

########################

_**Finding a campsite…**_

"Too open an' ain't no water," Jess complained, desperately trying not to think about it. _Not that I got any dishonorable intentions towards the girl… young lady… woman. No sirreebob. But stuff happens without you even knowin' how it got started._

Waynoka shrugged. "Trust me… there're springs all around, and caves big enough to shelter us and the horses if it rains or snows. We'll do fine. I thought you knew this country like the back of your hand?"

"I ain't got around to explorin' too much on this side. Slim an' me mostly hunt to the north an' east of our spread. Not much good grazin' this far west so our cattle range more to the east an' southeast."

"I imagine on a working ranch you don't have much time for the pure pleasure of joyriding."

"No m'am, we sure don't. You ain't from here… how come you know your way around?"

"Chelan and I were at mission school together and we both were awarded government scholarships to Westminster College in Pennsylvania. We got our teaching degrees there. She was assigned to Pine Ridge and I went to Rosebud. Then she married and moved here. Cory showed her all the traditional hunting grounds and burial sites… and sacred places. She showed them to me when I came to visit. I have an excellent memory."

Jess had continued to stand, trying to pretend he wasn't actually leaning against the mare for support. Wasn't doing a very good job of it. Waynoka stopped talking and stood up, looking him up and down critically.

"Scratch sure did a number on you, didn't he? I think we should go ahead and make camp. But you're right... not right here. I know a better spot."

The woman had the sense to not embarrass Jess further by inquiring if he needed mounting assistance. While he went about the laborious task of struggling back into the saddle, she found something of interest to investigate on her own horse and stood with her back to him until he was situated.

They backtracked a quarter of a mile to a granite outcropping Jess had noted earlier. Waynoka picked her way through jumbled boulders along a sinuous narrow path which opened, some hundred yards off the trail, onto a grassy glade enclosed in an oval of almost perfectly spaced erratic boulders.

As Jess looked around in the fading light, he realized that this site had to have been created and modified by successive generations of campers. The spaces between the boulders had been infilled with smaller stones, pried from the ground and rolled to their present positions or hand-carried to construct a drystone wind and snow break. From the moss and lichen encrustations on all the rocks, Jess deduced this had been accomplished a very long time ago.

Two openings had been left in the wall, just wide enough to admit a horse. Near the base of a sheer rock face, a tiny fast-flowing spring cascaded over a miniature moraine of pebbles to a catch basin not more than three feet across, hewn out of the living rock. At first glance Jess couldn't determine where the overflow was going.

########################

_**Another sprained ankle…**_

Toward the far end of the oval, Waynoka dismounted and started scooping away leaf litter from one of two wide flat parallel lumps, revealing a rock bench. Further exuberant pawing uncovered a second bench and the stone-circled firepit that lay between them. Jess had to stifle a snicker—she looked like a dog tearing up turf to distribute scent and mark territory.

"Here we go," she announced triumphantly. "Get off and come sit yourself down. I'll get a fire started."

Jess nudged the mare forward close to a bench. "I ain't about to let you do all the work… I can…" The aching ankle gave way when his foot reached the ground and he found himself flat on his back… unhurt due to the thick layer of leaves, but definitely compromised, mobility-wise.

Waynoka was right there, bending over without comment, helping him rise to one knee and then to his one good foot. "Lean on me." With Jess sitting on the bench, she knelt in front of him. "That boot needs to come off…" A tentative tug produced a gasp.

"Ain't comin' off. Ankle's all swole up inside. Hurts like hell," Jess wheezed.

Gently depositing the foot on the ground, Waynoka hunkered back, eyebrows puckered in thought. "Alrighty then. There's two ways to address this. One, pick the stitching out of the side of the boot. You can get it repaired later. Two, apply moist heat to it—leather expands as it warms up, but you probably already know that. One I can do right away. Two will take a while longer, if you don't mind waiting while I get a fire going and some water boiling."

"Do you ever stop talking?" was the first thing that came out of Jess's mouth when what he meant to say was "Let's try two first."

"I can be quiet when circumstances warrant… but I also tend to talk too much when I'm nervous… or worried," she admitted.

"Worried?" Jess echoed. She sure didn't come across that way… in fact, she seemed very much in control and competent… _unless it's me what's worryin' her… oh no! Can't let 'er be thinkin' anythin' like that… I ain't that kinda lowdown scum'd take advantage a the situation._

"Miss Twelvetrees… I hope you ain't thinkin' that I'm… that you… that we…"

"My friends call me 'Noki'… and no, it's not you _per se_… it's your condition."

"My what?" True… he'd had a little bit of a _condition_ earlier… but it had quickly subsided. How could she possibly have noticed? Or was she just guessing?

"What if that ankle's broken instead of just sprained? I'm not a doctor or even a nurse. I didn't think to pack a medical kit. I should've had Young Doc look you over before we set out. He probably wouldn't have allowed you to go."

_An' then you woulda been caught out an' we wouldn't be here now… alone… in the woods. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT._

"Noki…" Jess held up a hand.

"Yes?"

"Stop talking."

"Oh… right… okay. Fire… but wait. While I'm doing that, I want you to lie flat and elevate that foot."

"What? Why?"

"Because it will reduce the swelling some. Any woman can tell you about swollen ankles during… never mind. Just do it."

########################

_**Soup and thimbleberry bushes…**_

For a young woman who'd lived half her life among urban whites, away from her birth culture, Noki Twelvetrees had—unlike her brother—retained an impressive number of native skills learned in childhood. In no time at all, seemed like, she'd gathered deadfall, built a campfire and coaxed it to life. While Jess lay on his back, feeling useless with his injured limb propped up on two bedrolls, Noki stripped and hobbled both horses. For once he was profoundly grateful a female had, as usual, overpacked for a short-term excursion. The bulging saddlebags on both horses disgorged cooking and eating utensils and food. Both bedrolls were twice the thickness as usual thanks to extra wool blankets.

In short order Noki had coffee on the boil along with another pot of water. A tin pail hung from a tripod over the fire—soup, she said it was, declining to go into specifics. Cold biscuits were arranged on the rocks around the fire.

At last she announced she was ready to tackle the boot problem. A thick terry hand towel dipped in boiling water was applied to the ankle region and reapplied as it cooled. It took thirty minutes but worked as stated… the leather expanding enough to allow the boot to be wiggled off with a minimum of discomfort to the wearer. It was a relief to be able to sit up.

"You know… the water coming out of that spring is icy. If you immerse your foot in the basin, the swelling will go down even more," Noki suggested.

"No thanks." That idea was summarily rejected. There weren't too many inconveniences Jess hated worse than cold feet.

"The boot should be dry by morning but you probably won't be able to wear it anyway," Noki cheerfully predicted. "I'll come up with some kind of footgear by then, but in the meantime we've got enough spare socks between us to tide you over. You ready to eat? I know I am!"

_Please please please stop talking…_

The alleged 'soup'—a block of thick brown sludge reconstituted with water—was palatable and filling if unidentifiable. Jess was nursing a third cup of coffee when Noki excused herself, disappearing outside the stone wall with a small hatchet in one hand. Confronted with a new and unwelcome thought, he choked in mid-swallow. As far as he knew, natives did not customarily arm themselves when going for a constitutional in the bushes. Did she know something he didn't? It was too cold and past season for snakes. Was she anticipating four-legged predators—coyotes, wolves, mountain lions—or the two-legged kind? He felt around on the bench for his gunbelt, reassuringly still folded right where he'd left it. Presently he could hear the rhythmic thunks of a hatchet biting into wood.

Jess didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until his trail companion reappeared with a stout length of branch and a grin.

"Found you a walking stick. Might have to chisel on it a bit to get it the right size."

"Oh… thank you. I… uh…"

"Right through that cut in the wall, hang a left about ten feet. Big clump of thimbleberry Cory's folks cultivated for the express purpose. Mind where you step. If you need me, sing out."

There was no way to pretend as if he didn't understand what she was talking about. Apparently natives had no social taboos about biological needs—when you had to go, you had to go. And Indians and cowboys alike appreciated the usefulness of the soft, furry, foldable leaves of the humble thimbleberry plant. While he couldn't imagine a white woman dispensing this sort of advice, he had no recourse but to hop in the advised direction and take care of business.

########################

_**The chickee hut…**_

Returning from his expedition, Jess was startled to find the glade deserted and the bedrolls missing. A twinge of panic nipped the nape of his neck.

"Noki? Where you at?"

"In here. Be right out…" The disembodied voice seemed to be coming from a thicket of baby cedars crammed into a nook in the rocks.

"What're you doin' in there?"

"Fixing up our sleeping pallets. Toss some more wood on the fire, would you?"

_Sleepin' pallets? In them trees? Why not near the fire? It's cold an' comin' on dark an' I don't mind admittin' I'm more nervous than she is. Jess, old son… what have you got yourself into?_

Curiosity compelled him to hop and hobble toward the thicket. Parting the branches, he found Noki on her hands and knees, arranging their bedrolls on a platform some three feet off the ground. Constructed of saplings lashed together with rawhide strips and padded with pine needles, it featured uprights at the corners supporting a slanted thatched cover. He'd seen such structures during his sojourn in Florida—the Seminoles of that region called them 'chickee huts'. However, he'd never expected to see one here in the intermontane plateaus.

The unexpected surprise underneath: a _horno_… a domed, rock- and mud-mortared oven. Back in Texas where Jess grew up, every _mestizo_ home and quite a few white ones had a _horno_ for baking bread. Come to think of it, he recalled seeing similar setups—warming ovens built under adobe sleeping platforms—in some of the larger dwellings. Noki had already started a fire in this one.

The platform itself could accommodate two adults comfortably… four if very close friends. Tonight it would be just two. _DON'T THINK ABOUT IT…_


	31. Chapter 31

_Chapter 31:_** COMPROMISING POSITIONS**

_**"****You can discover more about a person in an hour  
of play than in a year of conversation."**__ • __Plato_

_**Introspection and the maiden…**_

Satisfied with her preparations, Noki slid off the platform and casually wrapped an arm around Jess's waist to support him back to the campfire. "I'm not sleepy yet. Are you?"

"No."

"Let me take care of a few things and then we'll sit and talk."

_Or not… _Jess groaned inwardly._ Dadblame if she ain't one a the gabbiest females I ever met. _With his back against a rock bench and his legs stretched toward the fire, Jess watched as Noki did the washing up and went to check on the horses. Mesmerized by sparks swirling upwards into the inky darkness, Jess allowed his thoughts to take him places he wasn't sure he wanted to go.

Waynoka Twelvetrees was the first educated Indian woman he'd ever met and he was having a hard time wrapping his head around that. With two notable exceptions, he usually found himself intimidated in the presence of refined, intelligent, eloquent women—all of whom, in his limited experience, had been white. Noki was different somehow… and it wasn't because of her race. He'd known her less than a day and in that space had gone from admiration to exasperation to annoyance, and now to… what? It'd been a long time since he'd felt this strong a physical attraction to _any_ woman, much less one who didn't even come close to what he fondly considered his 'type'.

Suddenly Jess realized—to his astonishment—he was no longer even thinking about _IT_… the frenetic activity of a one-night stand with a partner he might never see again… or one he would no doubt rue. And even if the spirit were willing, the body was reminding him most unpleasantly of the battering he'd endured that morning. Instead, he was thinking how nice it would be if Noki were to sit close by him, perhaps allowing him to hold her hand… or put an arm around her shoulder. Instead, he was swept with a sense of _déjà vu_.

Only once had Jess entertained thoughts of a permanent alliance. In retrospect, that relationship, with a former 'working girl' gone straight, had been primarily physical rather than cerebral although they'd spent many enjoyable hours just talking instead of doing. Eschewing matrimony, Carrie was the one who'd introduced him to the concept of friends with benefits. He'd missed her (and the intimacy) when she'd moved away to St. Louis, but in due time got over it. Then there'd been that professor, a free-spirited and uninhibited older woman—again, a short-term relationship with a predetermined cut-off date. Despite their disparate cultural and social backgrounds, he and Ellie Jo had somehow forged a connection on an intellectual level—something that Jess had never before deemed possible.

During both affiliations, Jess'd been physically handicapped—once with a broken leg and then with the first sprained ankle._ Now there's somethin' I ain't never thought about before… when you're hurt an' you can't get around on your own, does that have anythin' to do with how you look at a woman… or how she looks at you? What does it mean when you're just as happy sittin' together on top a the blanket as foolin' around underneath?_

########################

_**Preceded by reputation…**_

"Can I get you anything before I sit down? Water? Coffee? Blanket?" Noki's voice intruded on Jess's reverie.

"No thanks. I'm good."

"You ready to turn in?"

"No. Not yet."

"In that case…" After adding more fuel to the fire, she sat down right beside him.

It wasn't quite the semi-romantic scenario Jess had envisioned. Though they were close enough to rub elbows, those elbows were encased in the sleeves of heavy sheepskin jackets that restricted movement, so the arm-over-shoulder maneuver was out. They were both wearing gloves, which precluded hand-holding. Any attempt at lip-to-lip contact would necessitate removal of hats whose brims were already rubbing. No blanket protected buttocks from the cold ground. Jess was already detecting some numbness. Pretty soon, so would she. An awkward silence ensued until Noki broke it.

"Tell me about yourself, Jess Harper. I've heard so much about you."

_Uh oh._ "Ain't that much to tell. Used to be a drifter. Now I'm a rancher. That's about it."

"Misplaced modesty, sir," Noki sniffed. "Why, you're practically a legend among our people… especially us girls."

"I don't know what you mean," Jess protested. "I mean, whaddaya heard?" _An' do I really wanna know what she knows?_

"All sorts of things… gunfighter turned peacekeeper, defender of the oppressed, champion of the underdog and… lover of no small repute."

Jess gulped. "Who says? You yankin' my chain?"

"Common knowledge, my dear." A small gloved hand patted a larger gloved hand consolingly. "Did I mention Kateri Dancing Bear is cousin to me and Chelan?"

"Don't tell me… let me guess… mission school, right?" Jess groaned. "Didn't you gals learn nothin' but how to gossip?"

"We learned plenty back then… and even more when we went off to college. Kati's a few years younger—she's still in medical school—but we all keep in touch. Believe me when I say we squaws can gossip just as well as any white women. The tale of Jess Harper and the professor is one of our favorites."

_Does the whole damned territory know about that damned fishing trip? Might as well of took out a full page ad in the paper!_

########################

_**An enticing invitation…**_

"Oh… how sweet… you're blushing!" Noki tittered.

"Can we please not talk about this…" Jess asked through gritted teeth. "It ain't fittin'. It's embarrassin'." The smaller gloved hand had slid off the larger one and now rested on his thigh. He wanted to push it away… and he didn't want to. That thing he didn't want to think about was resurrecting itself with a vengeance. _DON'T THINK ABOUT IT._

"Jess…" the owner of the hand coaxed. "Look at me."

He swiveled his head just enough to see her out of the corner of one eye. "What?"

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we. I'm no dewy-eyed, virtuous, undespoiled maiden princess. I'm thirty years old, twice married and divorced, and the mother of two sons. Why do you think I've accepted a position on the reservation? No decent white folks would have me teaching their precious offspring. In your society I'm considered damaged goods, but in mine being an experienced wife and demonstrably fertile counts in my favor. I expect there'll be no shortage of suitors. However, that's in the future. Right now I'm inclined to seize the opportunity. Know what I mean?"

Jess was at a loss for words. Just about every male acquaintance he'd ever had—Slim included—lamented the difficulty of getting a desirable female to part with her favors. He'd never had much of a problem with that although he'd never understood why women so readily yielded to him with very little effort on his part. And here was another one offering to share her buffalo robe before he'd even expressed an interest.

Why _him_, when there were so many other, much more desirable men out there for the picking? Slim, for instance—tall, blonde, wholesome good looks, well set-up, well-read, well-spoken, personable… without the baggage of a dubious reputation. Sure, Slim'd had his share of lady friends, but he couldn't hang on to one for spit. Someone else always beat him to the altar with a ring and a promise. It was a major puzzlement.

And Noki was _still_ talking…

"Seriously. I'd be honored. You're under no obligation, of course. I realize this isn't the optimum venue for an intimate liaison…"

_I ain't sure what she means but I think I agree with it…_

"… considering it's cold out here and we'd have to get through a lot of layers and a whole bunch of buttons…"

_She's right about that… by the time we got through all them dadgum buttons we woulda done forgot why we wanted to..._

"On the other hand, you've already got one boot off and that's a start…" A giggle escaped and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oops. Sorry. I just had a mental image of you wearing nothing but a hat and one boot." Another giggle and a snort and then she was laughing. "Sorry, sorry… can't help myself."

Jess wasn't immune to the contagion of laughter. Soon he was helplessly laughing as well. They pulled off their gloves and rummaged for bandannas to mop the cold tears and snot running down their faces. Noki got the hiccups and neither could remember a surefire method of stopping them.

"Oh me. Oh my. I don't know why I'm laughing when I should be crying," Noki said when she finally regained her composure. "Here I've gone and propositioned the most attractive man in the territory and got shot down for my trouble."

Jess thought about that for a few moments… and the fact that she was _still_ talking. There was only one thing to do, so he did it. Pulling off his hat and twisting his torso around as best he could, he cupped her cheek with a now ungloved hand and kissed her. Not the most languid or sensuous of kisses, to be sure, as he was in the wrong position to hold her face with both hands—his favorite method. But she seemed to enjoy it. He certainly did.

"You didn't hear me say 'no thanks', didja?"

It was dark in the chickee hut and, yes, chilly… but the radiant heat from the _horno_ below was doing its job splendidly. The platform itself and the layers of blankets were comfortingly warm enough for the opportunity to be seized. Several times.


	32. Chapter 32

_Chapter 32:_** FINDING CORY**

_**"****Never miss a chance to keep your mouth shut." **__ • Robert Newton Peck_

_**THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 17th… **_

Jess woke to the cold grey dimness of pre-dawn and the sound of voices outside the hut. There was just enough residual warmth under the blankets to compensate for the fire below having gone out… along with the two-legged bedwarmer. He could've happily stayed right where he was if not for a full bladder and the fact that he needed to get dressed pronto. The one problem was easily relieved by rolling over to the edge of the platform. Who would know? Surely he wasn't the first.

Abused joints creaked and popped in protest as Jess wiggled back into his longjohns and pants. Maybe it was only wishful thinking on his part but the sprained ankle didn't seem near as swollen or as tender. Still couldn't get his boot on or put his full weight on it, though, and the knee was still pretty sore. Judging he was as presentable as he was likely to achieve on this frosty morning, he gripped his walking stick and fought his way through the boughs screening the chickee hut from the rest of the glade, hoping as he hopped he wouldn't fall flat on his face.

Noki, Cory and two men Jess didn't know were sitting on the stone benches, leaning forward toward a roaring blaze in the firepit. The first thing that crossed his mind was if he had been in the company of his white peers, his arrival would have occasioned a chorus of ribald joshing and coarse jokes over his getting some sugar off a squaw—even in her presence. These three men were sober as sextons and Noki didn't seem the least bit discomfited.

"Good morning, Jess… coffee?"

"Yes, please." _As if it ain't obvious we just spent the night together… she sure is a cool one…_ Accepting a tin mug, he sat down next to Noki.

Cory's craggy countenance was stern and forbidding even when he was in a _good_ mood—which he wasn't. He offered a brief welcome and introduction to his associates—Bill Silverthorn and Eddie Yellowhorse—then returned to the conversation in progress.

"I'm banking they're gonna make their move about an hour after dawn, when there's enough light to see what they're doing. The best and quickest way of flushing everyone into the open is with fire, which means they'll have to ride in close enough to torch the barn and house at the same time. Timing is crucial. We've got to be in position to mow 'em down before any of 'em has the chance to throw a firebrand. We can't shoot and fight fire at the same time."

"What if they try to sneak in on foot?" Yellowhorse reasoned.

"Our net has to be tight enough we can intercept the old-fashioned way… silently. That's why we need to start moving in tonight."

" 'Scuse me," Jess butted in. "Whose spread you talkin' about?"

"Yours and Slim's. They know Fox is there."

########################

_**Never bring a woman to a war council…**_

Jess's mission was instantly obliterated by an appalling vision of carnage occurring literally on the doorstep of the Sherman ranch. It was one thing to incur casualties while repelling would-be invaders from your domain… but to deliberately allow them to advance within spitting distance, with flaming torches? That was simply courting disaster. The margin for error was too narrow.

Jess stated his objection in the most forceful terms he could muster, ending with "No two ways about it. We gotta find 'em an' wipe 'em out."

"Whoa there, big fella," Noki countered. "That's what you came here to prevent, remember?"

Shooting to her feet, she glowered at Cory. "It's bad enough you had to create a spectacle with those first four… leaving them on Main Street with their throats cut. Couldn't you've just shot them and left the bodies to the wolves? Or buried them where they'd never be found?"

Cory gave her the gimlet eye in return. The old-school part of him wasn't accustomed to women airing opinions on men's business. But the side of him that sought modernization for his people won out. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought that'd be enough to scare off the survivors."

Noki was on a roll. "Jess was sent to talk you out of slaughtering those men… whoever or whatever they are. If you kill the rest of them in cold blood, the citizens aren't going to see it as, say, eradicating a nest of rattlesnakes. All they'll understand is renegade Indians murdering white men. They'll want something done about it and the government can't afford to look the other way. You know they're looking for any excuse to throw you off your land and force you onto a reservation. Don't give them one."

Cory sighed, shooting Jess a sideways look. "This is why you never bring a woman to a war council. Anyway, attacking their camp won't be that easy. Since we took out those first four, they've holed up in a defensible position and have sentries posted. We can't get at 'em so we have to wait until they come out."

"Don't you dare dismiss me like that!" Waynoka flared. "You know I'm right. The massacre of white men by red savages—no matter how heinous they are or how justified we are—will bring down the wrath of the white community on our heads."

Cory conceded he might have been a little overzealous at the outset… but that was in retaliation for them attacking his home and endangering his people. "I've rethought our strategy. If we're already in position on Sherman land—with Jess's and Slim's knowledge and permission—we'll be fighting in defense of a white man's property. Who's going to argue with that?"

Jess understood the reasoning but still didn't like the odds and said so. "How many men they got left?"

"Sixteen, near as we can tell."

"How many guns on our side?"

"Fourteen, counting you and me."

"Seventeen, countin' Slim an' your two boys."

"Eighteen, counting me," Noki said.

"_You_ are going home," Cory contradicted her.

"In a pig's eye," she retorted. "So… give me fifteen minutes to pack up and we'll follow you back to your camp."

########################

_**Show me the way to go home…**_

Per Cory Lake's instructions, there was nothing about his crew to suggest these men and boys were anything other than ordinary white cowboys on a roundup—not a bow or arrow, moccasin, feather, braid or bead in evidence. One would have to advance within facial recognition distance to realize they were Indians. A briefing was held during which Cory outlined his strategy with Jess's reluctant agreement. The men melted away in pairs as Cory dispensed assignments. Jess, Waynoka and Cory himself would be openly riding to the ranch on the stage road.

"Even if there're watchers—and I'm sure there are—there won't be anything remarkable about three riders overnighting at the ranch. For all they know we'll just be new hands reporting for roundup. If we take it easy we should get there around dinnertime."

"Don't need to take it easy on my account," Jess asserted. "I'm fine."

Cory snorted. "You look like forty miles of bad road, my friend. What'd she do to you last night? Buck you off then stomp you?"

"Wasn't me did that," Noki snickered, stuffing her hair back under her hat as Jess blushed. "Dan 'loaned' him Scratch yesterday, then he and Young Doc laughed their butts off watching Jess get smeared all over the corral."

"That would explain it," Cory nodded. "I'd shoot that damned nag except he's so good with women and the kids love him."

"You can tell that brother of yours I'm gonna cut out his liver and feed it to the dogs," Jess growled at Noki. "After I burn down his teepee."

"I know a shortcut down to the stage road," Cory announced. "I'll ride point. Noki… you ride drag in case Jess falls off."

"I ain't fallin' off," Jess said irritably. "Told you I'm all right." _ What I feel like is death warmed over…_

########################

_**Pit stop…**_

Cory's 'shortcut' brought them down to the stage road within five miles of the ranch and within sight of the cutoff to Bartlett's spread. When Noki suggested a breather, Jess said he'd just as soon keep on moving. Truth was, he worried if he dismounted he wouldn't be able to get back up, with or without assistance. Studying his face for a moment, Noki pulled up anyway.

"You might not need a rest break but I do. You two can ride ahead if you want and I'll catch up."

"I could do with a stretch myself," Cory remarked, sliding off. "No use pretending you aren't hurting, old man. Come on down."

Jess finally relented, grinning at the 'old man' reference as Cory Lake had to be a good five or six years older. He even accepted the shoulder Cory offered to help him hobble to a convenient boulder nearby as Waynoka marched off into the bushes to attend to personal business.

"I been so wrapped up in this gang business I forgot to congratulate you on becomin' a daddy," Jess said.

Cory's face split in a wide grin. "Yeah… a son. How about that? I feel bad about not being there but I'll make it up to her somehow."

"Chelan said to tell you come home soon. She had a hard time but both doctors were still with her when we left yesterday so I reckon she'll be all right. That boy a yours sure got a healthy set of pipes."

"So Noki was telling me before you woke up. You ever think about settling down yourself?"

"Me? Sometimes. Way things're goin', though, ain't likely."

"What about Waynoka?" Cory jerked his chin in the direction of the bushes.

"What about her?" Jess retorted guiltily.

"Smart, good-lookin', great cook… I wouldn't mind marryin' her myself."

Jess crinkled his brow. "But… you're _already_ married."

"Multiple wives are an old Cheyenne custom."

Waynoka stepped out of the bushes, tucking in her shirt. "And if you want to grow up to be an _old_ Cheyenne husband, you'll give that one a pass."

"I suppose you're right. Oh well… as I was about to say, you could do a lot worse than Noki. Her and Dan's daddy is Chief Bear's younger brother, Sun Bear. When the chief goes to that great hunting lodge in the sky, Sun Bear moves up a notch in the running to be voted next chief. I'll bet he'd be willing to part with Noki for, oh, maybe four or five good horses and a couple of new hunting rifles."

Jess gulped. _How to get out of this without insulting the woman, her cousin-by-marriage and the whole goldern clan?_ "She could do a lot better than me. I ain't no prize."

"What a fascinating notion, cousin," Noki remarked, busily poking her hair back under her hat. "However, at present I'm not in the market for another husband."

_Phew… that was a close call! _Jess thought with a shiver._ Can't always tell when these Cheyenne mean business or just funnin'…_

She cut her eyes at Jess. "Of course, it might be fun to cohabit for a while… a limited engagement, as it were, until we get across the border."

"Waynoka… shut up. Now's not time." Cory warned fiercely.

"What difference does it make? You're going to tell them anyway and it has to be soon. We need their help."

Jess looked from one to the other. "What border? What're you talkin' about. Heyyyyyyy…." His query was rudely interrupted as the two of them boosted him into the saddle and mounted their own horses.

"Home in thirty minutes, Jess. Just in time for dinner. Hang on tight."


	33. Chapter 33

_Chapter 33:_** LEGALITIES AND COWPIES**

_**"****It is not what a lawyer tells me I may do, but what humanity,  
reason and justice tell me I ought to do."**__ •__Edmund Burke_

_**Homecoming…**_

The trio's arrival wasn't quite as unnoticed as anticipated. The front and side yards were crowded with saddle horses, buggies and wagons. An impromptu barbecue was in progress under the cottonwood at the east corner of the corral and people were standing around in knots with plates in their hands. All heads swiveled toward the road as the riders pulled up short to survey the scene. Slim spotted them first and strode over. With his back to the crowd, he dropped his fake welcoming smile.

"Where the hell've you been?" he growled. "Mort's been riding all over creation trying to pin you down. Most of his posse had to go home—couldn't find any sign of that gang." He focused on Jess, taking in the new assortment of scrapes and bruises decorating his face and hands, along with the yellowed remnant of the black eye. "What's your excuse this time? Detoured to town and tied one on? Run over by a flock of sheep? What's Cory doing here? Where's his raiding party? Dammitall, Jess… you had _one job_!" The big rancher had to stop and take in a lungful of air. His mouth opened to relaunch his diatribe when Cory simply kneed his mount forward, shoving Slim and Jess.

"Stow it, Slim. Jess is hurt and we need to get him into the house."

Standing nearside to the horses, Slim couldn't see any obvious major damage, such as a bleeding wound… or the bootless foot on the offside. He paid no attention to the Indian boy riding with them. Poised to follow them to the hitch rail at the front porch, he was called away to answer a hail over by the cookstation.

Jess would have much preferred to enter the domicile under his own power, rather than being supported on either side by Cory and Waynoka, but he hadn't any choice in the matter. Daisy happened to be holding court in the parlor. Suppressing a gasp, she immediately took command, directing them to move their burden to the bedroom and install him on the nearest bed.

"What happened? Where's he hurt?" she demanded.

"I can speak for myself, Daisy," Jess said. "It's just that same ankle again. Got throwed an' turned it."

"Is he telling the truth?" She glared at Cory, daring him to lie and cover for Jess.

"Yes, ma'am, that's all. If you get us some liniment and bindings, Noki and I'll take care of him while you tend to your guests."

"Daisy…" Jess appealed from his recumbent position. "What in blue blazes is goin' on out there? What've I done now? Can't tell if Slim's mad 'cause I got here too soon, or mad on account I'm too late for somethin'."

"I'll explain when I come back. Won't be a moment."

With Daisy out of the room, the conspirators returned to the matter of the anticipated raid and their retaliatory plans.

"Well, that sure dumps everything in the cesspit," Jess griped.

Cory shrugged. "Not necessarily. Likely most or all of these folks'll be heading home by dusk. In fact, this might work to our advantage. The spies'll be so busy watching the crowd it'll be that much easier for my men to slip into place."

"What the heck're all these people doin' here, anyway?"

"We'll find out soon enough."

########################

_**Sorting things out…**_

It was more like ten minutes before Daisy returned with Mike in tow.

"Look what Mike found in the barn for you!" The youngster was toting Jess's store-bought crutches from one of his previous injuries.

"I sure do thank you, Tiger. 'Cause I'm really gonna need 'em next few days."

"You're welcome. We're all glad you're home. Nice to see you again, Mister Cory." Standing up straight, he gravely offered a hand and received a firm handshake in return. Turning to Noki, he rendered a stiff little bow. "My name is Michael Williams, miss."

Daisy's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"And I am Waynoka Twelvetrees but all my friends call me 'Noki'. I would be pleased if you would, too."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Noki."

Over the boy's head, Daisy and Cory exchanged amused glances. "Can't put anything past a smart kid, can you?" he snorted.

"I should have guessed," Daisy said to Noki. "You're far too attractive for a boy. Are you… um… a relation of Cory's?"

"His wife's cousin. Chelan had her baby, by the way. A boy."

"So I heard. Congratulations, Cory."

"How could you have…?"

"Young Doc got here this morning. Mort and three of his men escorted him in. Doctor Dan stayed at your place to be sure there weren't any further complications."

Cory froze. "What complications? Is she all right? The baby…?"

"They're fine. Don't worry. Mike… would you run and find Young Doc and ask him to come in here, please?"

"Yes, Aunt Daisy." The boy let himself out and closed the door gently, shutting out the burst of conversation in the parlor.

"If y'all don't mind…" The voice floated up from the bed. "Could somebody get on with fixing my ankle so's I can get on my feet an' find out what's goin' on?"

########################

_**Jonesy's bottled legacy…**_

Young Doc wasn't very far. He clomped into the bedroom with his bag as Noki was peeling off the layers of socks on Jess's foot. He, too, judged the ankle's condition as sprained, not broken. After vigorously massaging evil-smelling liniment onto the offended joint, he expertly bound it up while Daisy searched for and produced a pair of Jess's moccasins. She wrinkled her nose and made a face at the peppery odor pervading the room.

"That smells like some of that nasty concoction Mister Jones left behind. Vile but highly effective. Slim says we're down to our last bottle in the barn so I've been sparing with it. Where do you get yours?"

Young Doc chuckled. "Before he left, Jonesy passed on his receipt to Avery Jackson at the livery stable. He cooks it and Adam Niederhauser and I provide the bottles and ingredients. Adam handles distribution for veterinary use and I market the human version. Same damn formula, just different bottles. And don't you go spilling our secret! Next time you're in town come by and I'll load you up."

" 'Scuse me…" Jess interrupted plaintively. "But could you please explain to us what this here party's all about? An' is there any a that barbecue left? We ain't et since breakfast."

########################

_**Decision by arbitration…**_

"There's gonna be a trial, Jess," Mike blurted out. "Mister Tom's gonna be the judge an' twelve folks're gonna be the jury."

"Trial?" Jess repeated. "Who's on trial? Why?"

"Ruairí," Mike supplied, having sneaked back in behind the doctor. "They're gonna decide if he should go to jail or not."

"_WHAT?!"_ Jess made an abortive lurch to his feet and fell back heavily on the bed. "That why Slim sent me on a wild goose chase, Doc? To get me outta the way?"

Young Doc leaned over and fastened a big paw on the smaller man's shoulder, preventing him from making another attempt at elevation.

"Shut up, sit still and listen. Slim had nothing to do with this. He didn't even know about it until this morning."

"He waited 'til I was gone to get Ruairí thrown in jail, didn't he?" Jess was furious.

"Ruairí isn't in jail. He's right here where you left him. And this won't be a court trial like you're thinking of. This is merely a tribunal—an informal hearing—based on a medieval concept of arbitrage, not commonly used anymore in modern law."

"I don't understand any a that."

"Basically, Tom Brewster's going to argue the charges brought against Ruairí by Slim. Then we're going to hear Ruairí's side of the story. Then we're going decide if the accusations warrant pursuing criminal prosecution… or not."

"Whose idea was this?"

"Daisy's, originally. Then Lychee McNutt and I got together with Tom and took it to Judge MacMillan. He can't do it himself because he's an appointed official, but he gave us the guidelines and suggested who should make up a panel of twelve. His thinking was due to the unusual nature of the case it would be best to choose from the higher end of the educational spectrum. Tom agreed to serve as moderator."

"Who all's on this panel?"

"Well… let's see... Daisy and myself, of course. Lychee, Mort, Jaimie McPheeters, Marilyn Bartlett, Orrie Jackson, Adam Niederhauser. Father Sean Flynn, Reverend Barney Miller, Rabbi Abe Hoffman. I voted against Twelvetrees on account of extreme bias and he can't be here anyway. We picked Dave Sutton at random."

"They're all here now?"

"Yes."

"What about me and Slim? Why ain't we got a vote?"

"Because Slim is the plaintiff and you're too close to the subject to make an impartial decision. You can still sit in and comment."

"That don't seem fair. What about Tom? He get a vote?"

"Only if there's a tie."

"If I was old enough to vote, I wouldn't send Ruairí to jail," a small but determined voice asserted from the corner where its owner'd been quietly lurking in an effort to keep from being expelled.

"When's this here trial what ain't a trial gonna start?" Jess asked.

Daisy consulted her nurse's watch pinned to her bosom. "We're shooting for two o'clock and it's one now. That gives you enough time to wash up, eat and change into clean clothing."

"I don't have a change of clothing, Missus Cooper," Noki said.

"Please… call me Daisy. We're about the same size. I'm sure we can come up with something suitable. As for you, Cory Lake, you'll have to borrow something of Slim's and just roll up the pants and sleeves."

"Why couldn't y'all have waited another day or two, Doc?" Jess complained.

"Because tomorrow would have been too late. It's the fourth day."

Jess knew he was supposed to attach some significance to that enigmatic reference, but for the life of him couldn't remember why.

########################

_**Coram non judice…**_

The kitchen and parlor tables had been shoved together to create a conference table at which ten bodies could sit comfortably—twelve if they squinched together and didn't mind rubbing elbows. Tom Brewster, counselor at law, presided at the head. Behind him, at Slim's desk, sat Tom's fiancé Beatrice Evrard, town librarian, who'd volunteered as stenographer on the basis of her possibly being the only person in town with a facility for Pitman shorthand. Slim and Jess positioned themselves at opposite ends in such a manner that both had a clear view of all the panelists… and of each other, although Slim studiously avoided making eye contact. Everyone else found places to lean, stand or sit elsewhere in the room.

Preparing to open the meeting, the attorney set aside his normal down-home speech patterns in favor of a more formal, concise and grammatically correct approach.

"When first informed of this situation, my learned colleague Counselor McNutt and I put our heads together and came up with some observations we agree need to be shared, so that there's an understanding of the legal basis for the accusation made against Ruairí Conor, the defendant. I apologize in advance for your having to sit through a speech. This whole business turned out to be a lot more complicated than we anticipated.

"Can't say as I've ever presided over a _coram non judice _before… that is, a hearing without a judge. But if I _were_ the judge, I'd declare its purpose to be _ex aequo et bono_. What that means is the arbiter has the power to decide what's fair and right, regardless of what the law requires—not that any decision of mine or anyone else's is going be _legally_ binding. Just to be clear, folks, this is no kangaroo court. The only judgments being made today will be in the minds of you people sitting at this table after you've heard what the defendant has to say.

"That being said, you folks—as a committee of concerned citizens and as as individuals—have a duty to honor the law of the land. Unfortunately, law doesn't always equate to justice. For all intents and purposes, the defendant is presently being 'held' under citizen's arrest on a charge of treason by Matthew Sherman. At the moment and as far as I know, he's under no duress or physical restraint and has agreed to speak of his own volition. Now, in a traditional _ex aequo et bono_ proceeding, the plaintiff agrees to abide by majority decision of the adjudicators, which all of you are. In this case, Slim—Matthew Sherman, the plaintiff, has _not_ agreed, so whatever your personal opinion—let Mister Conor go or not—the decision ultimately rests with Slim and whatever his conscience dictates. Anybody have any questions so far?"

Slim raised a hand. "Who asked for this meeting, Tom? All I wanted was for the sheriff to collect my prisoner and keep him in jail until the territorial police can arrange extradition."

"Missus Daisy Cooper did," the lawyer replied firmly. "And Doctor Fred Whatleigh concurred. You're within your rights to make a citizen's arrest if you believe the situation warrants such action. However, you've accused a man based on hearsay—which is inadmissible in a court of law—and circumstantial evidence, which is a slippery slope if you didn't personally witness the criminal act. Frankly, what you need is direct evidence and you haven't any."

"He didn't deny anything," Slim stubbornly retorted.

"That doesn't constitute confession."

"Twelvetrees was there. He could prove it."

"Maybe. If he had the time and inclination to follow through… returning to the East for the weeks and possibly months it would take to research the events and compile affidavits before the case ever got to court. Doubt he's willing to do that. I might mention here if this goes to trial, any one of you could be subpoenaed as a character witness… in territorial court in Cheyenne or a federal court back East, which would be considerably inconvenient.

"Moving on… an act of betrayal can cover a lot of situations. A man can be a traitor to a friend, a principle, a memory, a cause and so on. But only one has legal consequences… and that's traitor to country. At the time of this alleged treason, the nation was divided by war into _two_ countries: the United States of America and the Confederate States of America. Never mind the 'new' country was never formally acknowledged by any other nation. Strictly speaking, every single person who participated on the side of the Confederacy was a traitor to the mother country. Mister Conor was never a citizen of either one, nor was he a combatant on either side, so he can't rightfully be deemed 'traitor' on that count, can he?

"How about terrorism—using threats or violence to further a political or religious aim? The Fenians were guilty of that, all right, but only in the sense of using violence to obtain weapons to further their political aims in _another country_ having nothing to do with the civil war in America. Of course, since they _did_ stir up a ruckus or two on American soil in attempting to gain attention to their cause, that can be construed as terrorism by a foreign entity. I can tell you right now, without going into detail, the laws of this country regarding terrorism are so contradictory and convoluted a trial in this instance would never achieve resolution. Mister Conor no doubt qualifies under one or another of these laws but getting a conviction would require more time, effort and financial investment than any court would be willing to expend.

"If you want to quibble over semantics, there's a whole raft of terminology that boils down to robbery on the high seas. We've already ruled out blockade runners, smugglers and privateers. That leaves pirates and commercial raiders, except the only commercial raiders at the time were owned and operated by the Confederacy for the express purpose of disrupting Yankee shipping.

"We come now to piracy. Referencing the eleventh category of exclusions to the 1865 proclamation of pardon, one might say yes, there was intent to _'engage in the destruction of commerce upon the high seas._' Real fine line there, folks. The Connacht branch of the Fenian Brotherhood had no interest in aiding and abetting either the North _or_ the South by destroying commerce in general. Their sole aim was obtaining guns for the Irish rebels, and they did it by using ships to capture them from other ships, which constitutes piracy. Piracy is regarded internationally as an act of war in itself, having nothing to do with a war already in progress. If the citizen's arrest was made on a charge of piracy, then Mister Conor can indeed be regarded as an entity at war with both countries, one of which no longer exists—or, as previously mentioned, technically _never_ existed.

"Oh… and as a matter of interest, piracy isn't limited to criminal acts on open ocean… it applies to _any_ body of water or watercourse. The Great Lakes, for instance. Or a gang that runs someone off his land and takes it over for themselves… that, too, constitutes piracy.

"If the United States of America and/or the State of Maine chooses to pursue this matter, it's going to cost a _lot_ of money… and a lot of real ugly taxpayer resentment. The fact that a nest of pirates was able to operate for almost two years right under their noses isn't going reflect too well on the efficacy of federal and state military and civilian law enforcement. I can just about guarantee both governments are going to want to sweep this one under the carpet.

"After you've heard from Mister Conor, what we're going to do is cast votes by secret ballot—not to determine guilt, because that isn't our purview… but to decide _yes_ or _no_—proceed with prosecution or not. Just remember… what we decide doesn't count for cow pies."

"Why are we even bothering with this, then?" Slim asked petulantly, slouching back in his chair.

"I reckon it's because your friends and associates who're inclined toward leniency are hoping to influence you in that direction. But if the vote comes in thumbs up, you can rest assured—for what it's worth—these folks _do_ share your patriotic enthusiasm and devotion to the law of the land."

Slim sat forward again, shoulders rigid. In attempting to project an aura of dismissal about the proceedings, he unconsciously generated exactly the opposite effect. It was clear to all he was offended at not having a place at his own table. "I'm not happy about any of this, Tom… but you've gone too far with this charade already and inconvenienced too many folks, so we might as well see it through."

"Let's clear up one detail first. A citizen's arrest isn't official until a formal complaint's been made to the police. Isn't that correct, Sheriff Corey?"

"Far as I understand it, that's right," the sheriff responded.

"And you've received no such _formal_ complaint in writing, is that also correct?"

"Uh… no, not yet."

"So Mister Sherman could withdraw his charge and there'd be no culpability on the part of either party?"

"No. I mean yes, he can drop the charge."

Slim glared at Mort, then at Tom. "Why would I want to do that?"

"You might change your mind, Slim. It's been known to happen," Tom retorted mildly. "I'm bound to ask one last time, will you agree to drop the charge and not file a complaint if the majority vote is no?"

"At this point, no… I'm not agreeing to anything."

Tom sighed theatrically, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. "Well, it was worth an ask, anyway. If no one has any further comment or objection, I reckon it's time to hear from Mister Conor."


	34. Chapter 34

_Chapter 34:_** EXONERATION**

_**"**_… _**it is not right to return an injury, or to do evil to any man,  
however much we have suffered from him."**__ • __Socrates_

_**The accused speaks…**_

Throughout Tom's address, Ruairí had sat silently, with his gaze fixed on some invisible point of interest on the far wall. Having established himself cater-cornered to Ruairí's right, Jess was able to observe him closely without being obvious about it. Where was the hunter-gatherer who cavorted naked in a frigid lake, who concocted amazing meals from whatever was on hand, who captivated an elderly woman and a little boy with a winning grin? _That_ man had been all vibrant color and good humor in spite of the dire future being orchestrated for him. _This_ man was diminished… resigned, without a spark of animation. He appeared… well… ordinary, inoffensive—hardly the image of a blood-thirsty pirate. Jess identified Daisy's handiwork in hair barbered to collar length and cleaned and pressed clothing—denims Jess had outgrown and a checked shirt Andy had overlooked when packing to return to St. Louis.

Judging by the way Ruairí recovered from the first malarial episode, Jess had assumed the second one would have the same result. But this day there were no amber glints in the man's lambent eyes and even the copper highlights in his hair seemed dimmed. His face was pale, showcasing faint freckles Jess hadn't noticed before. His hands, loosely clasped on the tabletop, betrayed a faint tremor. It was all too evident Ruairí wasn't at all well. Suddenly it sunk in what Young Doc had meant by tomorrow being the fourth day… and too late.

Jess harked back to the snippet of conversation between the doctors he'd managed to overhear before falling asleep on the Lake's front porch. He may not have known the meaning of those high-toned medical terms Dan and Young Doc had been bandying about, but he somehow understood they were concerned with more than just malaria. Ruairí hadn't rebounded the way Young Doc and Ruairí himself had said he would.

Too, Jess recalled Ninovan's words about the spirit longing to free itself from its worldly confines. Shivering from a sudden cold in his bones, he could sense—if not see—this detachment coming to pass. Ruairí was renouncing not only freedom, but life itself. _ Don't give up… not now, not like this! You gotta fight for whatever time you got left…_

Bridling with indignation at the unfairness of it all, Jess tried to convey his emotions to Slim—not getting any satisfaction because Slim wouldn't look him in the eye.

Whatever apprehension Ruairí might be harboring was masked by an impassiveness that seemed out of place in such a dramatic milieu, wherein his future might well be decided by the people in this room. Young Doc had to nudge him to get his attention.

"Your turn to present your defense, son."

Ruairí swiveled his head owl-like toward the doctor. "Don't have one. Let them think what they like."

"We talked about this and you agreed to participate, remember?" Young Doc was gentle but firm.

"Don't need their censure or their forgiveness. Don't want their pity, either."

"Now Ruairí, I must remind you, we _did_ discuss what you wanted to say. These folks have made the effort and given up their time to be here today," the doctor continued without the slightest trace of the impatience he must be feeling. He was, however, employing the cajoling tone he usually reserved for difficult children. "It would be rude to send them away without hearing your story… and I'm sure you're never _intentionally_ rude."

########################

_**One man's fish is another man's poisson…**_

After a few tense seconds, Ruairí gave a nod of acquiescence. When he spoke, his voice was sure and steady but lacking interest as his eyes swept the table. His speech unfolded without hesitation, as if memorized for a recitation.

"I would remind you all that a hundred years ago this country fought and won a war against British tyranny. The country where I was born—Ireland—has been rebelling against British rule for hundreds of years with no liberation in sight. The war some of you fought a decade ago was no less a revolution against outside interference with an established way of life. My involvement had nothing to do with pro- or anti-slavery sentiment or whatever other grievances Southerners held against the North. It had everything to do with cultural conditioning and honoring the beliefs of my father.

"Unless you people owned plantations that depended on slave labor, or manufacturing facilities that depended on Southern cotton, you didn't stand to gain or lose regardless of the outcome, but you chose sides and fought anyway."

Looking directly over at Slim, he said, "I was told your father was a pacifist. Why did you volunteer to risk your life fighting for someone else's cause?"

Slim's answer was sharp. "It was my duty. When a nation goes to war, there is no 'someone else'. We're all in it together."

"Did you resent him for not volunteering?"

No one had ever asked that question of Slim. He stumbled over the answer as all heads turned toward him. "I suppose I did, subconsciously. Mostly I just wanted him to understand why I had to go. My mother did. She didn't like it, but she understood. She… uh… she gave me her blessing. He couldn't and wouldn't."

The next query was aimed at Jess. "And you, Jess… what motivated you to take up arms for the Confederacy?"

"Huh?"

"Did you have a profound belief in states' rights and slavery? Did your father urge you to join up?"

"Never thought much about it, one way or t'other. Just seemed natural, bein' from the South an' all. We didn't own no slaves but I reckon we woulda if we'd a been rich folks. That's just the way it was. Besides, I was conscripted. Didn't have no choice."

Addressing the group at large, Ruairí continued. "Hang onto those thoughts, if you will, and keep in mind what I'm about to relate is history _as I was taught…_ not as I experienced it, because I was a baby when my folks emigrated. And by _taught,_ I mean indoctrinated.

"Before the British conquered Ireland, my ancestors were titled landowners. By the time of my parents' generation, they'd been stripped of everything, reduced to penury by British overlords. But the British couldn't eradicate Ireland's independent spirit and fierce desire to be free from subjugation. America won its independence in a single revolution. Ireland's history is a long, ugly record of failed uprisings right up to the present day.

"My father was a member of Young Ireland, one of many separatist movements. He never wanted to leave his homeland, but it came down to a choice between fleeing or hanging. Halfway across the Atlantic, ship fever—typhus—took my mother and all my brothers and sisters. There's no word that adequately describes my father's hatred of the British after that. He never thought of himself as an American citizen, but as an Irish freedom fighter in exile. He never applied for citizenship. I never did, either, because I was raised to consider myself an Irishman, not an American. And to believe that someday we'd be going home.

"Without all those mouths to feed, my father got back on his feet faster than most immigrants. Found himself a new wife—a young Irish widow with two small children and a nice little farm on Penobscot Bay in Maine. They had other children together. Her family were fishermen and they brought my father into the business. They were also fellow revolutionaries involved in smuggling weapons to the nationalists back home. The farm was a front for the staging area, where they stockpiled the guns purchased with donations. When they'd assembled enough to fill the hold of the one vessel in the fleet capable of transoceanic travel, off they'd go.

"Many of the leaders who escaped the Young Irelanders' '48 rebellion came here. In '58 they established the Fenian Brotherhood. My father was one of the first to be recruited. In the beginning it was confined to political action but it soon turned to intimidation and acts of violence. I was inducted when I turned thirteen."

"Why?" Daisy held up a hand. "Why would you do that? Weren't you taught violence is wrong?"

"Miss Daisy, I idolized my father and believed everything he taught me—including my duty to carry on the fight to free our homeland. My stepmother was herself an avowed anarchist, and an educated woman. Outside of school, we children were thoroughly indoctrinated in the cause. We had a comprehensive library. I cut my teeth on seagoing adventures—Melville and Defoe, Cooper and Dana. I ask you, what thirteen-year-old boy is gonna think, _I'd rather stay home and plow a field instead of going on a sailing adventure with my father. _At the time, I absolutely believed what I was doing was for a noble cause.

"When war broke out, there weren't any spare guns to buy even though the donations were still coming in. By the end of the first year, armaments manufacturers in England and mainland Europe were making fortunes exporting weapons to both the North _and_ South. They didn't care who won. We still needed guns, so the obvious solution was to go after the ships carrying them."

"You became blockade runners?" Daisy inquired.

Ruairí didn't mince words. "No ma'am. We had bigger, faster boats by then. We intercepted their ships and took their cargos."

"But… isn't that privateering?"

"Would've been if we'd been diverting shipments to Yank destinations or delivering them to the Rebs. But that wasn't what we were doing… we were still furnishing guns to the homeland as before, but by cutting out the middleman and without having to pay for them. Most of the time the crews didn't put up much of a fight and their boats were released after the goods were transferred."

"The term for that is piracy, Daisy," Slim growled from his corner. "Not any different from robbing banks or holding up stagecoaches."

Ruairí shrugged. "We saw ourselves as Robin Hoods of the high seas."

"What about the ships that fought back, that were sunk or taken over with most of their crew killed?" Slim challenged, his belligerence continuing unabated. "What about the Portland debacle? I remember reading about that in the newspapers. Do you know how many died in that disaster? How many sailors were maimed? Don't you have a shred of remorse for your part in that?"

"I have a question." Young Doc put a hand up. "How did you and Doctor Twelvetrees become so intimately acquainted?"

"I don't remember much about the Portland raid. Something happened. I was in hospital a long time… months. Doctor Tee went to extraordinary lengths to keep me alive. I never really understood why… unless maybe I represented an experiment, or a test of his surgical skills. All the prisoners who survived were sent by train to Elmira camp as soon as they recovered enough to walk. I was the last patient in the prison wing."

"How did you escape?"

"When Doctor Tee got sick, his replacement decided to move me into general population where there weren't any guards. One night I just walked out. Sympathizers helped me and some others get away across the border into Canada. Turned out the Canadians didn't want us there, either. Didn't want to put the Queen's nose out of joint. My name was on the watchlist on both sides of the border so I went to ground. Worked my way west for a year until I got to San Francisco, then signed on with the merchant marine. Spent the next seven years sailing the Pacific. Last spring, I jumped ship in Seattle and headed east. This is as far as I've got."

########################

_**An explanation is not an excuse…**_

"Why'd you come back?" Jess asked softly.

"There's no easy answer to that. Before the Portland incident I'd already begun questioning my allegiance to the cause… and where I belonged. Just because I was born in Ireland didn't make it my country. I didn't remember anything about it. I didn't know anyone there. Their problems weren't my problems. _This_ was my country. _This_ was where I lived. If my family hadn't been such fanatic revolutionaries, if they had embraced the New World and settled into farming or fishing like normal immigrants, I wouldn't be here today. I probably would've enlisted in the Union army along with everyone else."

"Why didn't you cut loose from that crowd?"

"Doesn't work that way. When you take the oath, it's for life. If you express doubt, you're endangering the organization. If you walk away, it's the same as desertion from the military. The Fenians are ruthless and tenacious. If you compromise that oath in any way, they _will_ track you down and exterminate you, no matter how long it takes. Aside from that, it would've reflected badly on my father. It would've called into question _his_ loyalty and he'd also have been considered a liability. If I hadn't escaped from hospital, I'd have sat out the rest of the war in prison camp… or died there. If I'd turned myself in later, I would've been shot or hung.

"I don't regret those seven years overseas. It was a great adventure rivaling anything I'd ever read about and not all of it on ships. But comes a time when you start dwelling on the future, on the loneliness, and living out of a duffel bag. You start thinking about a place to call home. Wondering if there is such a place and if you'll ever find it. I'm thirty-one now and haven't found it yet. That's it. No home. No family. No future."

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Jess raised an eyebrow at Young Doc, who nodded back. The two of them cut their eyes at Slim, as unreadable as a sphinx. Jess had been hoping to see a hint of compassion for someone whose life had been derailed by misguided loyalty. It wasn't there.

"Is this where we're supposed to feel sorry for him?" Slim queried the room at large. "He was old enough to know what he was doing wrong… and that actions have consequences."

"I don't see what you expect me to do about this, Slim," Mort plugged into the void. "I'm afraid war crimes are outside my scope… or jurisdiction. Unless I have a legal document backing me up."

"He attracted a criminal element to our community, Mort. People were hurt. Property was damaged."

########################

_**Jess empathizes…**_

Essaying a glance in Jess's direction, the sheriff recognized the slow burn that in the past had too often flamed into anger. "Best not go there, Slim," he drawled, shaking his head slowly. A few short years ago that statement could have been applied to Jess… and everyone in the room was probably entertaining that exact same thought—except, apparently, Slim.

Mort fully understood why Jess was more inclined to take Ruairí's part. He must have been sensing in the redhead a fellow wanderer whose path had been determined by a flawed role model—in his own case, to escape a father he hated… in Ruairí's, a desire to emulate a father he admired. Both roads led to hell and a short, desperate life if the son was unable to escape the tainted shadow of the father.

Having earlier heard Doctor Dan's explanation of his own antipathy toward Ruairí, Young Doc was at somewhat of a loss to understand his attitude, however. One would think that an educated man whose own people had also endured centuries of oppression would be sympathetic to the plight of the millions of displaced Irish flooding America's shores. But Dan seemed to share Slim Sherman's opinion: Ruairí Conor should be prosecuted for actions he'd undertaken in a war that had been over for a decade. Were they not all different men from the youngsters who'd followed their convictions into battle? Mort had once confessed to Young Doc the only reason he'd signed up was fear of public opprobrium if he didn't.

Tom Brewster studied the faces of the twelve voters at the table, plus Slim's and Jess's. Everyone was earnestly attempting to avoid one another's eyes. Like any other panel of jurors… or covey of poker players… each was also working diligently at achieving a deadpan expression. The moderator had to choke back a chuckle. Some folks he knew quite well, others not so much… but then, he'd been in town less than a year. Still, he'd bet the farm the majority believed it was past time to let go of that damned useless war.

"If there are no further comments or questions, let's vote."

As they were literally packed cheek by jowl at the table, there was no way anyone could write anything without his or her neighbor seeing. Tom had devised a method whereby the voters would arise one at a time, go to the kitchen counter and utilize one of twelve small squares of paper put there for the purpose. The voter would then fold the scrap in quarters and drop it in Daisy's big cobalt blue ceramic mixing bowl.

After all had voted and returned to his or her chair, Tom brought the bowl to the table and appointed Mike to draw out, unfold and read the ballots. The 'yes' votes would go in one stack, the 'no' votes in another. When he was done, there was only one stack… the 'no' votes had it. A collective sigh of relief went around the table and all eyes went to Slim, whose hands were pressed palm down against his knees.

At last he raised his head, looking more sad than angry. "All right. I give up. I won't press charges. That doesn't mean I'm admitting I'm wrong… just I'm yielding to democratic process and the winds of change."

########################

_**A post-procedural discussion…**_

Jess wanted to speak privately with Ruairí, get a sounding on his state of mind at being set free…physically if not psychologically. But before he could extricate himself and his crutches from his chair, the man was hustled out the side door by Young Doc. The meeting broke up quickly, with visitors thanking Daisy and Slim for the hospitality and making their goodbyes. Tom circulated, thanking the jurors for their participation, pleased with what he considered to be a moral victory. In the meantime, Cory Lake did his own circulating, accepting congratulations on the birth of his son… and requesting certain individuals stick around for an announcement of some importance.

Daisy, Beatrice and Waynoka began the washing up with Jess conscripted to dry dishes as he could do that sitting down. Mike offered to help. Cory and the sheriff had withdrawn to the pasture on the other side of the road, where they leaned on the fence with their backs to the house, engaged in private conversation. Slim and the two lawyers congregated on the front porch, watching Dave and the Indian boys ready the relief teams for the four o'clock stage.

"As I see it," Tom finally said, "there never was a question of guilt or innocence—more a matter of practicalities. No hard feelin's, I hope?"

"No, Tom. Even though you all did a bang up job of making me look like a heartless unchristian sunuvabitch."

"Sorry about that. I'm sure you've got your reasons for feeling the way you do but that's none of my business, or theirs. You've got the right to dislike anybody you choose. Soon as Ruairí moves on your life'll get back to normal."

"I can't afford normality until those marauders are killed or captured. I was hoping…"

"Gentlemen," Lychee interrupted, "We seem to have completely overlooked one of the more intriguing aspects of this affair."

"How's that?"

"We failed to establish _why_ those men are so set on getting their hands on one small, rather insignificant Irishman. He must have offended them, or whomever they represent, in some grievous manner."

"Hell's bells! You're right!" Tom smacked himself on the forehead. "Or else he has or knows something they want..."

"And I'm saying _I don't care_ about their reasons," Slim reiterated curtly, cutting Tom off . "As I was about to say, I was hoping Cory's outfit would get the job done if Mort's couldn't. Looks like the only way I'm gonna get rid of the danger is give 'em what they came for so they'll go away."

"Even if their intent is to kill him? You can't mean that!"

Lychee spoke again, aiming his comment at his fellow lawyer. "I've known Slim Sherman for years and I'm telling you right now this man's talking through his hat. Whoever those men are, whatever they want with his unwanted guest, they're on the wrong side of the law. Slim has never given in to threats and never will. He will not surrender _any_ man to mob violence."

"I backed down today, didn't I?" Slim interjected sourly.

"That was another matter entirely. None of us were threatening you. We were merely exercising our respective consciences, which seemed to indicate we felt at heart being a perpetual stranger in a strange land was punishment enough. Let it go, Slim… and make your peace with Jess." Lychee wasn't the only one who'd noticed the partners avoiding each other at the conclusion of the meeting.

Changing the subject, Slim inclined his head in the direction of the pair at the fence. "Either of you have any idea what Cory's got on his mind?"

"I _may_ have a notion," Tom hedged, "but better you hear it from him, I think."

Slim groaned. "Sounds like more bad news. What about you, Lychee? You got anything to contribute?"

"My mother claims she is on her deathbed."

"I'm sure sorry to hear Miz Peach is ill. I always thought she was indestructible."

"Insufferable is more like it. Full of airs and graces since being adopted into Lee Wing's household as Honorable Great-Grandmother. Now she's demanding I marry and give her grandchildren before she goes to join her ancestors."

"Never got the memo, huh?" Slim grinned at the first spot of humor in his day.

"Nope."


	35. Chapter 35

_Chapter 35:_** CROSSING BORDERS**

_**"****The Army is the Indian's best friend."**__ • __George Armstrong Custer_

_**A reconvening of the principals…**_

The afternoon stage had just departed as the small circle of friends reconvened at the ersatz conference table, this time with Cory Lake presiding. Four of them were already in possession of the information he was about to divulge. Mike had been packed off under protest to the barn with Dave and the Indian boys. Jess and Slim sat at far opposite corners, avoiding each other. The women placed cream and sugar within easy reach of everyone, distributed cups, saucers and spoons, and went around the table with coffeepots before seating themselves.

Although Cory had specifically requested Ruairí's presence, Young Doc had returned to the house without him. When questioned, he replied tersely the inquisition had proved stressful for his patient and he needed rest.

"Rest from what?" Slim scoffed. "He's done nothing for the last three days but hide from me in the bunkhouse and let Daisy wait on him hand and foot. I'm about to put a stop to that, though."

Daisy was in an unusually contentious mood despite being pleased at the way the vote had gone. "Ye gods and little fishes!" she snapped. "Can you please get off that hobby horse for five minutes? If anyone requires coddling around here, it's _you_. Ruairí is no trouble at all. All he's done is sleep, all right? Because he's ill and that's what sick people do. My life would be a lot easier if you'd do more of it!"

Young Doc stepped in. "Enough, you two. You can fuss later. Right now we've got other business."

########################

_**Not the federal government's finest hour…**_

Cory held up a blue legal binder folded in fourths and tied with cord. "I'll get right to the point. The Commissioner of Indian Affairs in Washington, in his infinite wisdom, has decreed that—due to ongoing insurgencies and to assure the continuing peace, prosperity and reasonable safety of the white citizens of the Great Plains—_all_ indigenous peoples must be relocated to assigned reservations. What this means for us in Albany County is that members of the Southern Cheyenne are hereby directed to the combined Cheyenne/Arapaho reservation in eastern Oklahoma. Shoshone will go north to Wind River and Sioux to the Great Sioux Reservation in Dakota Territory. This includes any Indian owning or dwelling on private property… which means myself and everyone living on the Circle C."

Angry muttering broke out around the table.

"What bullshit's this?" Slim blurted. "Everyone knows it's renegade Sioux causing trouble, not your people."

"The Great White Father back east doesn't know and doesn't care. Indians are Indians, period. We have to be either contained or eradicated."

"But that's absurd!" Daisy cried. "They can't throw you off land inherited from your father, can they?"

"They're doing it, Miss Daisy. Three weeks ago I got a visit from Mort and Lemuel Leverett, our local BIA representative. Leverett explained the executive order won't be officially announced until November first and clearances must be completed by January first. Apparently the big brains believe eight weeks are adequate to uproot hundreds of households and force them to relocate hundreds of miles in the dead of winter. _Eight weeks_ for a householder to dispose of property, settle his affairs and arrange for transportation of his family, household goods and livestock. Non-compliance will result in forcible removal with whatever the family can carry on their persons. The land will be confiscated by the government and all remaining assets and livestock forfeit."

"We have to fight this." Slim slammed his fist on the tabletop. "Start a petition… get some lawyers on it. You're only half-Indian, after all. Half-white ought to count for something."

Cory shook his head. "Went straight to Lychee with this, then we both took it to Tom. They went over it with a fine-tooth comb. There aren't any loopholes. For legal purposes, the 'one drop' rule applies—same as for Negroes. If you have one pureblood native great-grandparent, then you're one-eighth Indian… but a _whole_ Indian all the same, as the laws apply. When the deed to the ranch was refiled in my name, it was stipulated I was one-half Indian because, at the time, the government was offering incentives for natives to settle and take up agriculture instead of hunting and seasonal migration. Now that serves to identify who _can't_ own the land.

"You're probably wondering why I got preferential treatment with this advance notice. The explanation is simple: nepotism. My father was second cousin to Governor Campbell, so he gave me this heads-up as a family courtesy… very privately, of course, because he doesn't want the relationship to get out. The minute this goes public, any private property held by an Indian will be worth next to nothing. And any holding unsold by the end of the year can be seized. I'm going to let Doctor Whatleigh have the floor now."

########################

_**Dealing with the inevitable…**_

Young Doc stood ponderously, clearing his throat."I'm afraid I'm responsible for calling this meeting as well… although the one has nothing to do with the other. The timing was expedient as all of you here are Cory Lake's trusted friends… some of you since childhood. By that I mean trusted to keep confidential anything discussed this afternoon."

"Of course we will," Daisy shrilled, followed by a susurrus of assent from the others. "And I'm sure we'll all join together to help Cory and his people through this crisis in whatever way we can."

"That's exactly what we're going to talk about. Mort, some of these matters might stray over into shady areas… but nothing overtly illegal, or so I'm assured by our tame Shylocks—no offense to Lychee and Tom. If you'd rather not be burdened with questionable knowledge, you're free to recuse yourself."

The sheriff rolled his eyes. "Too late for that. I'll stay."

"Very well. Anyone else who would rather not risk implication? No? Splendid!" the doctor rumbled. "Here's the proposal: If Cory can't find a buyer by the fifteenth of next month, the Circle C goes up for auction along with equipment and livestock. If anyone questions _why_, it'll be given out Cory's moving his family to California for health reasons. In reality he's hoping to get a decent offer nailed down before the news breaks and he's forced to sell at a loss.

"Counselors McNutt and Brewster and my business partner Doctor McPheeters and I are forming a consortium to buy it outright through a proxy, in order to furnish Cory with immediate funds. Our township is growing like Topsy and it's a seller's market… unless the seller is in straitened circumstances and the land agents know it. We've got a little better than four weeks to raise enough capital to do this, so we're inviting investors. We're fairly sure we can put the ranch back on the market in the spring, hopefully at a substantial profit. In the meantime, mum's the word. Back to you, Cory."

"Those of you who've been to any reservations are aware of living conditions. In a word: dismal. There are twelve other families on my ranch, about equally divided between Shoshone and Cheyenne… eighty-seven people including women, children and elderly. They've got accustomed to living with the same amenities you folks enjoy. They wouldn't fare well in reservation conditions. Some of the young folks have intermarried and they don't want to be cut off from their tribal relations… for example, me and my wife.

"According to this directive, Chelan has to go to her Shoshone people at Wind River, and because both our societies are matrilineal, our new baby goes with her. I'm Cheyenne. The government would have me go to Oklahoma unless I renounce my mother's tribe and cut all ties with them in order to follow my wife. I don't even know if that would be allowed. Same goes for the other Shoshone and Cheyenne parents whose children have married into each other's tribes. They don't want to be separated from those children and grandchildren… and why should they be?

"Wind River is better than most but still primitive. Haven't heard anything good coming out of Oklahoma. The Sioux reserve is unspeakable and it's being reduced every year by thousands of acres to accommodate more and more white settlers. Thank the gods we're not Sioux—they've got that madman Custer blundering around slaughtering entire encampments and getting away with it. Not just him—there are others… but he's the one getting all the press. Bottom line, we have no intention of allowing ourselves to be herded like animals onto allotments that wouldn't support a goat. We're going to make a run for it. We're going to Canada."

########################

_**A small circle of friends…**_

"Canada?" Jess squawked. "You can't go to Canada. The army'll stop you before you get as far as Montana territory."

"Not if they don't realize we're going… or where. I've got a plan."

"Let's hear it." Slim leaned forward with interest.

"We're going to start sending our people north one wagon at a time at intervals—elderly, children… anyone who can't ride. Their cover story is they're _all _Shoshone going to Wind River. If they're intercepted once they've crossed over into Montana territory, they can claim they're headed to any one of half a dozen reservations—including Northern Cheyenne. Who's gonna know? All Indians look alike to white soldiers. One or two wagons per week won't excite any suspicions."

Slim furrowed his brow. "If you start buying up wagons, people will notice… and there aren't many for sale around here."

"That's where we need your help. As we won't be driving any cattle north, Lychee and Young Doc suggest bartering cattle for any rolling stock you can spare… and mules. With a signed receipt written up as a cash sale, you can rebrand, no questions asked."

"Slim… what about that old buckboard out behind the barn?" Jess said, animosity set aside in the face of this calamity. "You've been meaning to fix it up and sell it anyway. We don't need it."

"Good idea," Slim agreed. "Doesn't need much work and I'll be glad to donate it. And Avery Jackson's got two wagons at the livery stable he accepted in lieu of board bills. I can dicker with him. He owes me."

Heads nodded as others plotted where they could come by suitable transportation.

"What about the rest of your people?" Ever-practical Daisy wanted to know. "How will they travel?"

"Everyone who's fit to ride will go by horseback—three, maybe four groups—straight north through the foothills where they're less like to be detected. We'll use all our spare horses as pack animals."

"There's already snow on the ground up there," Slim cautioned. "It'll be tough going. Have you ever been that far north, through Sioux country?"

"No," Cory shrugged, "but Waynoka says she's pretty sure she can round up some cousins who'll be willing to guide us."

########################

_**Expressions of solidarity…**_

"Why Canada?" Doc Jaimie queried. "Why not Washington or Oregon territories?"

"Two months ago a cousin and I traveled to Dakota Territory to do some horsetrading. We were hosted at the home of his sister Asha, who married into the Lakota Sioux. While there we were privileged to meet her uncle-by-marriage, the Hunkpapa holy man called Sitting Bull, and sit at his council fire. Mostly they discussed the increasing persecution by the horse soldiers and what they should do about it. The younger chiefs, the hotheads, want to fight. The older ones wish to avoid confrontation and are considering capitulation or possibly retreating beyond the reach of the government. At present it's a stalemate but both sides agree a peaceful resolution doesn't appear likely in the near future.

"Sitting Bull's proposal—as a last resort—is removing across the border to southwestern Saskatchewan in Canada's Northwest Territories, where there are still ample bison and few white settlements. I've read up on it since then and talked to some folks who've been there. It seems ideal. None of us want to give up our home but it's preferable to living on a reservation… or being wiped out by the army and the likes of Custer."

"It's better'n seven hundred miles from here to the Canadian border, Cory," Jess observed. "With the best a luck it'll still take a wagon six to eight weeks to get there. An' then you gotta get settled under shelter afore hard winter sets in."

"If you have any idea how to hide eighty-seven people from the United States government until spring, let's hear it. Otherwise, I don't see we have a choice."

Slim stood up. "We need to wrap this up so you all can get on the road. As it is, it'll be dark before you get home. Let's all take a few days to think on it and come up with ideas, then we'll meet again. Anyone who wants to stay over tonight is welcome, of course."

"If we can borrow a couple of lanterns, we can convoy back," Tom suggested.

"An' a group won't be as easy to pick off," Jess added grimly.

A game of musical buggies ensued, with Lychee tying his horse to the back of the Brewster's surrey and Beatrice graciously surrendering the front passenger seat so Tom and Lychee could talk lawyer business. Allowing he needed to make a flying visit home before his wife disowned him, Young Doc reclaimed his rig and invited Jaimie, who'd arrived with the Brewsters, to share. They had doctor business to discuss. Mort dismissed his two remaining deputies and sent them along as outriders.

As the procession boiled away down the stage road, Mort Corey, Cory Lake, Jess and Slim drifted over to the corral where Dave and the boys had been forking hay over the poles. As Daisy peeped through the curtains at the window over the sink, they seemed to be having some sort of argument with much pointing and gesticulating and—on Slim's part—a fair amount of shouting. Calvin, who wasn't even supposed to be on his feet, was perched on a top rail along with Mike.

"Do you have any idea what's going on out there?" Daisy inquired of Waynoka.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid I do and you're not going to like it much," Noki sighed.

########################

_**Waynoka is informed…**_

"Wait! Wait! Don't tell me now." Daisy turned to the stove,stirring the pot of Great Northern beans with cubed ham she'd started earlier that day for the evening meal.

"You did ask," Noki pointed out.

"It's been an uncommonly busy day. My Dutch grandmother, God rest her soul, taught me that one should never prepare a meal while angry or frustrated or distracted. It increases the chances of making an unpalatable error."

"You can say that again. What can I help you with?"

"You can start by setting places for… let me see…" Daisy counted off heads. "Twelve. No… make that eleven. I doubt Ruairí will come to table if Slim's there… or even if he isn't. I've been feeding in shifts for a while, but as the tables are still pushed together we might as well all eat at the same time. Would you mind grinding some coffee beans? So what do you think… cornbread or biscuits?"

"Cornbread, definitely." They continued talking as they worked.

"I'm sorry we didn't have much opportunity to talk earlier… it was all so hectic. What happened to Jess, by the way?" Daisy asked. "He was just getting over a black eye. Now he looks like he was dragged backwards through a hedge, as my sainted English grandmother used to say."

"He had a disagreement with a horse. The horse won."

"I can't recall that ever happening… not since I've been here."

"As the cowboys say, _'ain't a man what can't be throwed'."_

"May I ask… if it isn't too personal… are you planning to go to Canada also?"

"No… I'm going to Wind River to teach at the government school. Chelan and I got our teaching degrees at Westminster in Pennsylvania."

"Indeed? That's where I'm from… although I didn't go to college. I was wondering, of course, why you sounded so… so…"

"Educated?"

"I hope I haven't offended you."

"Not at all. I imagine you'll be seeing a lot more of us in years to come. It's important to preserve one's heritage, but the plain fact of the matter is civilization is going to happen. Those of us who've experienced the best of the white man's world aren't going to be content sitting around in our teepees, picking lice off one another and eating raw buffalo liver. There's really no such entity as the 'noble redman'—no matter what the romanticists would have you believe. I hope to educate as many children as I can so they have a chance to adapt and hopefully thrive."

"That's certainly a worthy mission. I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you. I'm going to need it. Jess mentioned you were a nurse during the war?"

"Yes. I was. Still am, in many ways. My boys here are always damaging themselves in some way or other."

"I don't know much about nursing other than dealing with little boys' sniffles and scraped knees."

"I suppose a teacher has to be prepared to deal with playground injuries."

"Well… yes. Although I was thinking of my own sons."

Daisy paused to raise an eyebrow. "Sons? Oh… you're married?"

"My first husband—the father of my nine-year-old—died in the war. Kerry is with his paternal grandparents in New Hampshire. My second husband and I are divorced—he has custody of our seven-year-old, Brian, in Pennsylvania."

Daisy wasn't often flustered but she couldn't recall ever having met a _divorced _woman… and the only instances of mothers being denied custody of their own children involved any number of distasteful reasons.

"I know what you're thinking, Missus Cooper, but I wasn't an unfit mother. Both my husbands were white. If I had believed at the time I'd ever return to my people, I'd never've had those children… even back then I knew first-hand how half-breeds are regarded out here. My boys have been raised white and have a secure future in _your_ world. It would've been cruel to drag them out here just to satisfy my own selfishness. I hope you understand that."

"I do… at least I think I do." Still, Daisy couldn't imagine a mother voluntarily giving up her young children.

An hour crept by as dusk descended. The confab out by the corral was yet in progress. With everything in readiness for supper, Daisy revisited the original subject. "You may as well tell me now what they're up to. It's always best to be prepared…"

Waynoka was correct in that Daisy didn't like it. When she went out to ring the calling triangle, she thrashed the dickens out of it.

First in the door, Jess passed close by Noki on his way to the washroom. "What's the matter with _her?_" he whispered.

"She's unhappy about the prospect of our being attacked… and rightly so."

########################

_**Taking up positions…**_

The conspirators seemed satisfied with their defense strategy. Cory's men would be concealed in pairs at advantageous points around the premises. Two of them would be in the barn along with Jimmy and Charlie in the loft. Mort would take the roof of the ranch house as neither Slim nor Jess couldn't manage the ladder. Dave and Cory would patrol the perimeter. Jess's ground floor defense consisted of Slim, Calvin, Daisy, Noki and—after a brief battle of wills with Slim—Ruairí.

"He's a crack shot with a rifle, Slim. We need every gun we can get."

Slim couldn't resist a snide remark. "Must not be as sick as Young Doc's making him out to be if he can handle a weapon."

The idea behind working in pairs, rather than shifts, was one could doze while the other kept watch. Assuming they were under surveillance, Cory and Slim orchestrated movements so activities would appear normal: the evening meal, the last check on the outbuildings and stock, the household retiring for the night and lights extinguished.


	36. Chapter 36

_Chapter 36:_** RECKONINGS**

_**"****In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are  
useless, but planning is indispensable." **__ • __Dwight D. Eisenhower_

_**FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 18th…**_

As Cory had predicted, they came at dawn—insidiously, at a slow walk to delay detection of their mounts' hoofbeats as long as possible. The defenders could see, from their places of concealment, most of the riders carried long objects that could have been rifles but most likely were torches waiting to be lit. They spaced themselves on the stage road far enough apart there was a high possibility one or more might be able to get in close enough to fling a torch through a window… or at least close enough to the house or barn to ignite siding.

The sheriff had made it abundantly clear: No one on their side was to shoot first, even if torches were lit. But… as soon as the first intruder fired a weapon or moved forward with a blazing torch, it was open season. Seconds stretched into nerve-wracking minutes. It had grown light enough that, on a normal day, ranch activity would have already been underway. The attackers had to know the people inside were aware of their presence and were waiting for them to make the first move.

At a hand signal from a rider in the center—presumably the leader—torches were fired up. He raised his high in the air.

"Ruairí Conor… show yourself, traitorous dog. We know you're in there. Surrender or, on the count of ten, these innocent people will suffer for your evil deeds… one, two, three…"

On the count of eight the front door opened wide enough for a figure to slip through onto the porch, hands in the air. The tangle of red hair was unmistakable. Before anyone could react, the door was yanked open the rest of the way. A large body flew out and tackled Ruairí, throwing him down onto the planks.

The leader spurred his horse to the forefront, shouting _Faugh an beallach!_ Rallying to the Irish war cry, his cohorts surged forward… and the trap was sprung.

########################

_**Not now the martyr…**_

No one'd been prepared when Ruairí'd set aside his weapon, insinuated himself through the slightly ajar door and made his bid to surrender himself for the greater good. He might've succeeded had not Slim been close enough by to instinctively fling open the door the rest of the way and hurl himself on the would-be martyr. In the process he gashed his forehead on the porch railing and knocked out the smaller man. His attempt to drag Ruairí's unconscious body back inside with his one good arm while on his knees wasn't working so well. One of the redhead's legs was inside but the other hung up in the rungs of a porch rocker.

Jess, firing out the window to the side, suffered a moment of indecision. With two of their defensive rifle positions out of commission, could he afford to stop shooting and render assistance?

"Gimme." Noki'd been crouched behind him, prepared to serve as reloader while in the kitchen Daisy was doing the same for Calvin. Wrenching the rifle from his hands, the woman shoved him away and took his place as he crawled over to the door.

Between the two of them, Slim and Jess managed to extricate Ruairí from the rocker and haul him the rest of the way inside. Slim wiped the blood out of his eyes with a sleeve and retrieved his rifle from where he'd dropped it. On one knee, he began shooting from around the protection of the doorjamb. Jess then took over Ruairí's abandoned weapon and rejoined Noki at the window where they jostled elbows.

"Get outta the way!"

"_You _get outta _my_ way." She stubbornly refused to yield and he didn't have time to argue. In any case they soon found it less inconvenient if they fired and reloaded alternately. At least they weren't bumping shoulders.

With Mort laying down covering fire from the roof and Calvin aiming though a broken pane in the kitchen's front door, the gun battle raged for a full ten minutes. Cory had instructed his men to shoot only when they had a clear line of fire away from the house. The four men in the barn didn't have that problem. They blasted away. A few horses were hit but none had gone down.

And then it was over.

########################

_**Policing the battleground…**_

Following the _second_ shortest firefight in the history of the Sherman ranch, Cory's warriors oozed out of the surrounding landscape, poised and eager to finish off the survivors at his command.

"No. We will let the sheriff and our brother Slim deal with these according to white man's law. After all, we need their good will and cooperation in our own plans to come."

Bodies and sputtering torches littered the yard. Surrounded by scowling braves, the remaining uninjured survivors promptly surrendered, dismounting and huddling together as ordered by a particularly ferocious-looking individual. Four more Indians emerged from the barn for a quick investigation of the bodies on the ground.

"Six dead," Jimmy Notch Ear reported to Cory with obvious satisfaction. "Three on the way out. Rest of 'em ain't hurt that bad."

Cory nodded. "You and Charlie tie up the live ones and stash 'em in the barn."

"Wounded ones, too? Some of 'em are bleedin' pretty bad."

"That's their hard luck." Cory's eyes swept the yard and came to rest on the spring wagon. "Wolfkiller… get some men together and start loading bodies on that wagon. Amos… look around for some tarps to cover 'em with. Big Nose… you…"

Cory's attention was diverted by acrimonious shouting spilling through the open front door of the house. "Excuse me. I'll be right back." He strode strode away toward the front porch.

########################

_**Slim waxes intransigent…**_

Five minutes earlier, Slim and Jess had been glaring at each other over Ruairí's inert body spread-eagled on the floor. For an all-too-brief moment, Jess had rejoiced his partner was finally showing some compassion for the man he'd wanted dead.

"I know what you're thinking," Slim quashed the query before it could be asked. "I didn't save him because I changed my mind."

"Then why didja?" Jess whipped back.

"Suicide would've been too easy. His day of reckoning'll come. Just not today and not at the hands of vigilantes."

"I thought you agreed to let it go, Slim… let _him_ go."

"I did and he's leaving. Today." Slim yanked the bandanna from his neck and crumpled it against his forehead. "I've had enough of this shit."

Jess looked down at Ruairí, who hadn't quite come around yet but was getting there as Noki knelt next to him, applying a cool damp cloth to his bloody nose. He looked back up, speaking in a cool undertone. "Guess you ain't the man I thought you was, podnuh."

"Whaddya mean by that?" An angry blush bloomed on the other's face. "The man's a traitor. He chose his path and he doesn't belong here. End of story."

"Guess you wasn't listenin' too close about what Tom was sayin' about the war—that every man what didn't fight for the Union was a traitor. That makes me one, too. Doncha see?"

"No, I don't see. And anyway it's not the same…"

"It's zackly the same. You just can't admit you're wrong…" Jess made the mistake of prodding Slim in the chest with a forefinger.

The argument escalated from there, despite Daisy's anguished pleas for them to stop fighting and Waynoka's admonition to Jess to back off. Having descended from the rooftop, Mort was debating the advisability of stepping between the antagonists when Cory darkened the doorway.

"Slim, Sheriff… you don't mind, you're needed outside." Cory spoke mildly, his inscrutable countenance giving no indication he was aware of having interrupted a scene of potential mayhem. "Miz Cooper… some of the prisoners need doctoring when you can spare a minute."

"Yes… yes… of course. I'll just go and get things ready."

Detouring behind Slim, Mort patted his shoulder and carefully nudged him toward the door. "C'mon… let's go tote up the damages."

Cory turned and walked away, the sheriff and Slim following—the latter without a backward glance. Daisy vanished into the kitchen, thankful that a call to service gave her an excuse to retreat until she could stop trembling. Noki distracted the white-faced Jess by requesting his assistance in getting Ruairí off the floor and onto the fainting couch. Jess's sprained ankle, while much improved, still couldn't maintain his full weight on it. He winced when he tried, almost losing his balance.

"Goddammit!" The epithet escaped as Noki directed him to a rocker, commanding him to sit and elevate his foot on the ottoman. "I need to…"

"You need to calm down. And _you_…" She whirled to aim her next order at Ruairí, trying to sit up. "Keep your head down until your brains stop leaking out. If you had any to begin with. What in the name of the Great Spirit did you think you were doing? You almost got Slim Sherman killed. They _would've_ killed you."

"That was the general idea," Ruairí mumbled from under the blood-soaked cloth.

"Well, maybe it was a good day to die for _you_. But it wouldn't have been for Slim. Or any of the rest of us for that matter. I'm going to help Daisy. The two of you stay put. I mean it." Noki steamed off.

########################

_**Dave's first time…**_

Daisy and Waynoka finished prepping the kitchen table as an aid station, with the contents of the household medical kit and an assortment of nostrums in bottles and jars laid out on a clean white cloth. On the stove, water was coming to a boil. Daisy had summoned Mike out of the root cellar where she'd banished him for safety. After assuring him that none of their own people had been killed—just the bad men, she assigned busy work to keep him occupied. Otherwise he'd be trying to sneak outside for a gander at the bodies.

After he'd washed his hands, she parked him at the table and provided him with a pair of scissors and a roll of cotton gauze. "I need lots and lots of pieces about yea big…" With thumbs and forefingers she illustrated an approximate four-inch square. The boy was, as usual, happy to help with a grown-up activity.

A knock at the kitchen's side door produced two relatively minor injuries: Sliding down the ladder from the hayloft, Jimmy had missed the last two rungs and dislocated two fingers. He didn't even whimper as Noki popped them back into place and Daisy splinted and wrapped the hand. Mike was impressed.

Dave had caught a ricochet that'd struck him below the left collarbone. He looked stricken when informed Daisy was going to have to dig for the bullet.

"Your first time?" Waynoka asked sympathetically.

"Y… ye… yes."

"It's not too bad. Barely under the skin. You'll survive."

Observing his ashy pallor, Daisy decided the extraction had best take place with him lying down on the sofa. "If you pass out and land on the floor, you'll be in our way and you're entirely too big to move."

With the one and only home team gunshot wound dealt with, Daisy donned a fresh apron and found a second one for Waynoka.

"Time to go see to those other men," she sighed. "Mike… stay inside and keep an eye on Jess and Ruairí. They are _not_ to get up for any reason. I don't believe you need worry about Dave—he's out cold. We won't be gone long."

########################

_**Triage redux…**_

The women ventured out to the barn where two of Cory's stalwarts guarded seven sullen captives. Cory and others of his band had rounded up the invaders' horses and put them in the corral before moving on to assist Charlie with morning chores. Jimmy, with his impaired hand, volunteered to feed chickens and gather eggs.

The women looked away from the canvas-covered lump of bodies on the spring wagon, now numbering nine. Once Daisy had triaged the injured prisoners, Slim and Mort escorted each in turn to the house and back again. Slim's head had stopped bleeding and he fended off Daisy's attempt to see to it. "Later. I'm fine." He avoided going into the parlor.

"What happens now?" Daisy asked after the last man had been seen. None of them had had life-threatening wounds though there was always the danger of infection.

"Interrogation," Slim clipped. "Mort, you ready?"

"Let's get to it." The sheriff followed him out the door.

########################

_**Daisy figures things out…**_

"Any chance of breakfast?" Jess inquired hopefully as the nurses returned. "I could chew the a… the stuffin' outta a scarecrow."

"As soon as we get this mess cleaned up we'll get right on it," Waynoka assured him. "You can help by staying out of the way."

Daisy didn't miss the unspoken exchange between the two—the way the Indian woman reached down to touch the corner of his mouth. She pretended not to notice the way he tilted his head up so that lips met fingers for a split second. _ So _that's_ the way it is…_

########################

_**The intimidation game…**_

Singling out the raider who'd led the charge, Slim and Mort frog-marched him out of the barn and around the corner to the forge where they handcuffed him to a crosstie ring. Charlie had already fired it up as he'd noticed two coach horses with missing shoes. He needed to get them done right away as those particular two were scheduled for the ten o'clock team. But the pinched-faced, pugnacious gray-haired man with a minor gunshot wound to the thigh didn't know that.

All Liam O'Hara could see were irons thrust into the firepot's coals, those two white men—one tall, blond and tired-looking; and one short and gray-haired with a shiny tin star on his vest, two fierce-looking aboriginals with absolutely enormous knives, and a third squat, musclebound native with a deep adenoidal voice and penetrating squinty eyes that put the Irishman in mind of a snake. Though the Indians were dressed like white men, there was no mistaking what they were.

"Whatcher gonna do wit me?" he demanded with false bravado.

"Answer our questions or you'll find out," barked the tall blond. "I'm Slim Sherman. I own this outfit. What's your name?"

"Liam O'Hara an' that's all yiz'll be gettin' oudda me," the Irishman sneered.

"You think?" The short savage took a step forward, scrubbing knuckles across O'Hara's short-cropped head. "Not much of a scalp worth takin', is it, boys?"

"Not worth the effort," said one of his burly compatriots, lowering his gaze meaningfully to the captive's crotch. "But you might could get a nice tobacco pouch out of some other part."

"I only have room for six prisoners in the jailhouse," the man with the badge ruminated, stroking his stubbled jaw thoughtfully. "We'll have to sacrifice one of 'em. Might as well be this one."

"Or we could just stake him out on an ant bed," one of big Indians contributed. "And lay bets on how long he lives."

Liam O'Hara was starting to perspire.

"What about you, Wolfkiller?" the short Indian inquired of the other large one. "Need a pair of ears to add to your wife's necklace?" He idly picked up a poker and examined its glowing red tip, inches away from their captive's nose.

After a few more suggestions as to possible uses for various body parts, Liam O'Hara caved, torrents of sweat spurting from every pore.

"If I tell yer, ye'll lemme go?" he whimpered, pissing his trousers.

"Not a chance," the sheriff said. "But you'll get to keep all your parts."

"Fair 'nough. Ask away."

########################

_**A confession commences…**_

"What do you want with Ruairí Conor?" It was a simple enough question and Slim was expecting an equally simple answer such as… the subject had stolen something or brought shame on a family or killed someone.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sir… but air ye after knowin' of the Fenians an' our Great Cause ta lib'rate our beloved homeland?"

"Actually, I do… yes."

"It's Fenian I am… as was that accursed divil traitor, Ruairí Conor…" O'Hara drew himself up to his full five feet three inches with great dignity, turning his head and hoicking dramatically with what little moisture he was able to summon up.

"Traitor?" Slim repeated, bewildered. "Uh… in what way?"

"In the worst way possible… he broke his oath to champion the cause. He betrayed his own kith an' kin."

"When was this?"

"Twelve year ago, t'was. We was set to receive a shipment of firearms. There was to be no bloodshed…"

"You mean you were about to steal guns…" Slim corrected.

"Sure an' we looked upon it as takin' from those as had plenty an' givin' to those as had none. Ireland is small an' poor, sir. You who have so much surely wouldn't begrudge sharin' with those in need."

"It's still stealing… and we were at war. We needed those guns."

"Be that as it may, we was betrayed by one of our own. Close to one hundred of our people was arrested, perished during the fightin'… or… worse… allowed to die in agony for lack o' medical care. Fathers, sons, brothers, cousins—all because o' one turncoat. We what survived vowed vengeance on the yellow-bellied son of Satan. Had he not sold us out to the Union, we would've melted away with them guns an' no one would've got hurt. All these years we been searchin' an finally picked up the jackal's scent. Why could you not just have let us have 'im?"

"That's not how we do things here," Slim advised, conveniently overlooking his earlier proposal. "And see where it's got you… nine more dead men and the rest of you going to prison or the hangman's noose. Was it worth it?"

Liam O'Hara squared his shoulders and looked directly up at Slim, still defiant in spite of his damp shame.

"Woulda been had we got 'im. Don't be thinkin' this be the end of it, boyo. When word gets back to the Brotherhood, more will come."

Behind him Slim heard the hiss of a sharply indrawn breath, but he didn't take the time to look at Mort. He had more questions for the pint-sized Fenian.


	37. Chapter 37

_Chapter 37: _** IF ONLY**

_**"****A sage steers by the bright light of confusion and doubt." **__ • __Zhuangzi_

_**No time for a proper breakfast...**_

Agreeing it would be prudent to mobilize as quickly as possible, Slim, Mort and Cory sorted out transportation logistics—corpses on the spring wagon, casualties on the buckboard and shackled uninjured captives on horseback. Cory's men would escort the procession as far as Bartlett's place. There, Mort would co-opt enough Triple B riders to replace the guards, seeing as how it probably wasn't the best idea for a troop of Indians to appear in town right now.

The ten o'clock stage would be arriving shortly. With Calvin still convalescing, Dave now out of commission, Jimmy reduced to one hand and Jess still mobility-impaired, two of Cory's older men were detailed to remain behind to help Charlie—Nathan Notch Ear and Alvin Elkhorn. In the meantime, Daisy and Waynoka kept the coffee coming and assembled sandwiches that could be eaten on the run. Mike was sent into the parlor to keep an eye on the three occupants.

########################

_**A change in the air…**_

Re-entering the house via the kitchen's side door, Slim advised Daisy and Waynoka he was going to town… and that he'd probably be detained for a day or two, in which case he'd stay over at the sheriff's home. Gathering herself to deliver a stinging harangue about disobeying doctor's orders, Daisy clamped her lips. She sensed some inner upheaval occurring—_had_ occurred—in just the past few hours. She saw as well that behind those tired blue eyes was a man whose thoughts were in turmoil. The hard, cold anger he'd been harboring was being eroded by uncertainty, and his posture nowhere near as rigid.

Through the window over the sink, Daisy had witnessed the interrogation taking place by the forge. Watched with horrified fascination as a glowing iron was held close to the terrified prisoner's face. Surely Slim and Mort wouldn't condone torture although the menacing presence of Cory Lake and two of his braves left no doubt that _they_ wouldn't hesitate. She'd seen the captive's jaws working frantically, though couldn't hear the words. And—even at this distance—she'd distinctly noted the alteration in Slim's body language. Whatever the man had said, it had struck Slim to the core as surely as a blow from a fist.

Evidently Waynoka had seen and sensed Daisy's distress. "Don't worry. They're just scaring the buffalo chips out of him. It's not the old days when they would've used the iron to take an eye."

Daisy wasn't so sure. She let Slim pass without admonition.

########################

_**Slim's conundrum…**_

Slim didn't need to go to town. He didn't even especially _want_ to go… but he did need to get away, to process the new facts he'd just been furnished regarding the detested traitor in his home. _If a turncoat betrays his own kind, does this make him more of a traitor… or is he now a collaborator? Why did Ruairí leave out this salient piece of information? Is he ashamed of having turned on his own people? Was it possible he'd forgotten his contribution to the Union's victory?_

Passing through the parlor on his way to the bedroom to gather his shaving gear and a change of clothes, Slim didn't spare a glance for Dave or Jess or Ruairí. What they took for disdain was a gathering cloud of confusion...

_Are bits and pieces of my own father's story getting mixed up in this deal? Everyone branded Pa as a traitor… and he died knowing that's what they believed of him… but he wasn't. Maybe Ruairí's innocent, too. Wait… Pa __was__ innocent… this other man, maybe not so much… or is he, too? Pa led the Confederates into a snowstorm on the high seas where they all died, didn't he? No, wait… that's not right. Something's not right with any of this… __Am I indeed crazy? _

Shaking the cobwebs from his head, Slim found himself gripping the bureau with an intensity that rattled the mirror above. The swirling mists subsided as he stared at his reflection. Everything was wrong with his world and he had no idea how to fix it. He needed to get away and think.

########################

_**The stand-in ranch hands…**_

Putting on her heavy barn coat, Daisy stepped onto the front porch to watch the cavalcade move out. Noted with worry Slim on the buckboard with Mort at the reins. Noted with relief that all signs of the conflict had been removed, which meant Mike could be let out of the house. She walked over to the corral where Nate, Al and Charlie were readying the replacement coach horses.

"Did Mister Lake leave you any specific instructions until he returns?"

One of the men stepped forward, doffing his hat to reveal hair streaked with gray. Daisy recognized him as Hiawee's husband and Jimmy's father, Nathan Notch Ear. "Cory say do whatever you ask, missus."

"Oh splendid! Is it all right with the rest of you if I appoint Nathan to decide who does what?"

The men all grinned and bobbed their heads. "We could use a fair amount of kindling. Charlie will show you what to do when the stage gets here. We'll stop and have our dinner around noon. I'll ring the triangle to let you know when to wash up. If a few of you could possibly scare up some game—a deer or an antelope—we could have stew for supper."

"We take care of all of that, missus. Don't you worry."

Daisy thanked them effusively and they dispersed.

########################

_**Waynoka's sharp eyes…**_

Re-entering the house and finding the parlor vacant, Daisy walked around to the kitchen where Waynoka was washing dishes with Mike's assistance. "Have Jess and Ruairí gone to the bunkhouse?"

"Oh… I don't know… Mike and I went down to the cellar for potatoes. Can we speak?" She canted her eyes toward the boy. Daisy got the hint.

"Mike… you can go play now," Daisy smiled. "I'll help Miss Noki finish up here."

Mike got message although he'd much rather have hung around. Off he went.

"Is something the matter, dear?" Daisy asked of the younger woman.

"I don't know… you tell me. I noticed Fox... Ruairí... didn't have any breakfast. I asked him several times if he wanted anything, but he said no."

"He wouldn't have eaten anyway," Daisy advised, taking up a dish towel. "Today's the fourth day… if Fred's right."

"The fourth day of _what?_ What are you talking about, Daisy?"

"Ruairí's malady. I thought you knew him?"

"No… we weren't on the ranch at the same time. I've heard of him, of course, but never saw him before yesterday. What's wrong with him?"

Daisy sighed. "Do you know anything about malaria?"

"Not much."

At the conclusion of Daisy's explanation, Waynoka nodded her head thoughtfully. "Young Doc said he'd be back but we can't count on it. We'll just have to do the best we can."

"It's sweet of you to offer… but you're under no obligation…"

"Nonsense. I'm here and you obviously need the help. One of us has to keep up with the cooking—we'll be feeding a lot of mouths this evening. Why don't you see to that? Jess can't get around very well so he can be nurse and I'll be runner. You tell me what to do and I'll do it. Is anything happening right now?"

"It's too early in the day. Ruairí doesn't need a minder at this point, but I can tell Jess doesn't want him left alone."

"Let me see what I can do." Waynoka untied her apron, grabbed a jacket off the hook and slid out the side door. "I'll just barge in and introduce myself."

########################

_**Never argue with a nurse…**_

At dinnertime, with Waynoka offering to take over in his absence, Jess managed to get on the outside of a heaping helping of fried eggs and ham, biscuits and redeye gravy. Suddenly enveloped in fatigue, he nearly face-planted in his plate twice before Daisy cajoled him into catching a nap.

"You'll be much more comfortable lying on your bed with your foot propped up on pillows. And it'll aid in getting the swelling down. I promise I'll wake you in one hour," she lied convincingly, fingers once again crossed behind her back.

Less than a minute later, Jess was sawing logs. Checking the other two nappers—Calvin on the fainting couch and Dave on the extra long sofa—she drew on her coat and scuttled out the door to the bunkhouse where she found, of all things, the Indian woman and the redhead playing checkers.

Even more haggard than the day before, Ruairí nonetheless got to his feet when Daisy entered. "Finally flaked out, did he?"

"He swears he just needs a short nap but I doubt you'll be seeing him again before this evening."

"Missus Cooper… like I said, I don't need anyone with me every minute."

"You're sure there'll be a third cycle?"

"Yes ma'am. I can feel it coming on. With all due respect, while I appreciate Jess's attentiveness and Miss Noki's company, what I'd really like to do is just sleep."

"As you wish," Daisy sighed. "We'll leave you in peace. But later this afternoon we'll start taking turns checking on you."

"It's not necessary… truly."

"You let us worry about that. Come, Noki."

########################

_**A visit to the icehouse…**_

Daisy hung a right around the corner at the forge instead of left toward the house. A sharp wind had come up and dark clouds scudded across the sky.

"Where are we going?" Waynoka had to raise her voice above the noise.

Daisy shouted back something blown away by the wind, beckoning to Jimmy for assistance as they trotted by.

At the foot of the bluff behind the corral, a heavy oaken door was set into an adit constructed of six-by-six hewn beams. Even without wind it was a struggle for Daisy to open. The youngster had to put muscle into lifting the crossbar, but once opened the door swung easily on well-oiled hinges. Before Jimmy closed the door behind them, Daisy laid her hand on a lantern hung just inside and lit it in the dark with practiced ease.

"Is this a mine shaft?" Waynoka asked uneasily, not a fan of confined spaces.

"It's actually a natural cave," Daisy said. "Slim's father discovered it shortly after they homesteaded, when he was clearing trees and brush to put in the barn and corral. He excavated the entrance to make it easier to negotiate. It slopes downward to the first of several chambers and a network of tunnels."

"Why are we here?"

"This is where we store ice harvested from the lake in winter. There's a constant flow of cold air at a little over thirty degrees coming from somewhere down below. Nobody knows why or where. Some of the blocks have been in here several years. Meat stays frozen a good long while."

Indicating an empty tub on the floor, Daisy asked Jimmy to fill it with fist-sized chunks of ice. "Leave the tub right inside the door, dear, so it'll be ready when needed later this evening."

Wooden shelves held packages wrapped in butcher paper and identified with grease pencil. Daisy made her selections while Jimmy applied pick and mallet to the nearest block of ice.

"Has anyone ever explored the tunnels?" Waynoka asked, shivering due more to phobia than to the cold.

"Slim used to when he was a boy, he says. Andy wanted to but first their mother and then Slim forbade it. And, too, Slim never had enough leisure time to go exploring once he was old enough to help his father with the farm. Okay, Jimmy… we're done. Let's get out of here before my nose freezes off!"

########################

_**Girl talk…**_

Back in the kitchen, Daisy put several packages in the icebox and unwrapped a joint of something to defrost in a pan of warm salted water. "Leg of lamb," she announced. "I'll roast it this evening unless they bring us some fresh meat. For dinner I believe we'll have corned beef and cabbage and boiled potatoes. There's some very nice calf brisket in the brine barrel in the root cellar."

After bringing up the necessary items, they settled at the kitchen table to peel potatoes, scrape carrots and discuss how the universe would run ever so much better if women were in charge.

"May I ask why Mike isn't in school?"

"Our latest schoolmistress left us high and dry without notice on the arm of an itinerant drummer. I tell you… it's a positive nuisance trying to find a level-headed, reliable teacher. But it's the school board's fault—all men, of course. They insist on hiring young unattached women at starvation wages, then act surprised when they invariably run off to marry. They would do well to engage mature, dependable _married_ women with roots in the community… and pay them what they're worth!"

"Amen to that! But at least you've got the vote now—you white women, anyway—and isn't that a mighty leap forward toward equality?"

"For what good it does us," Daisy sniffed.

"Have you read that William Wallace poem… _'the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world'?_"

"Sentimental slop!"

"If only it were true!"

With the pot of corned beef and cabbage simmering on a back burner and pans of yeast rolls rising on the sideboard, Daisy retrieved her sewing basket. "I usually do this in my rocker by the fire but we can sit here at the kitchen table. If we keep our voices down, they won't be able to hear us." She was referring to Dave and Calvin still snoozing in the parlor. Mike, curled up in one of the fireside rockers with a book in his lap, had fallen asleep.

"If you have an extra egg I'll help with some of those." Waynoka gestured toward the holey socks Daisy was fishing out of the basket.

Thus engaged, conversation flowed seamlessly from topic to topic, at last alighting on the relationship between Slim Sherman and Jess Harper.

"I was given to understand," Waynoka began tentatively, "they're as close as brothers, but from what I've observed so far…"

"Even brothers have their disagreements, dear."

"I know that. I was briefly introduced to Slim yesterday—we hardly exchanged five words—and I've only known Jess for forty-eight hours, but I sensed some deeper current during that mock trial."

"So did I," Daisy agreed, "though I can't put my finger on it. Perhaps I'm just too close… can't see the forest for the trees sort of thing. What's your interpretation?"

Waynoka pursed her lips. "Well, at first I thought it was simply a matter of jealousy… not that I'm insinuating there is any sort of unnatural affection between them. But when two people—regardless of gender—have such a close bond, it's only natural one will experience resentment if the other suddenly forms an attachment elsewhere."

"And is there?"

"Is there what?"

"An attachment… an understanding, perhaps?"

"Between myself and Jess, you mean? Oh no… no. Nothing of lasting importance, I'm sure. I meant Jess and Ruairí."

"I hadn't considered that," Daisy nodded, "but it wouldn't be the first time a former friend or new acquaintance of either one has come between them. I have to admit I'm mystified by Slim's overreaction in this instance. Normally he's the nicest, most fair-minded gentleman you could ever hope to meet—not a mean bone in his body. I'm concerned the concussion he sustained isn't as mild as Young Doc diagnosed. In my opinion, he shouldn't have gone to town, even though he rode in the buckboard. I can't imagine how he could've managed a horse, what with the arm in splints."

"Probably with knee and voice commands. I wouldn't worry. Men always find a way to do whatever they want to do, especially if it isn't good for them."

"I know… but this continued irrationality is _so_ out of character for him. It seems to me Slim is harboring some deep-seated anger that really has nothing at all to do with Ruairí. He's just the scapegoat."

"Has Slim been this adversarial with Jess on other occasions?"

"Oh my, yes… or so I've heard. Years ago, when they were just starting out. Jess quit the ranch any number of times, but he's always come back on his own… or Slim's fetched him back. Now that Jess is an actual partner, though, I don't see how he could just up and leave… or would. Do you?"

"I don't know him well enough to speculate. I get the impression he's impetuous and not the most patient man in the world."

"I'm afraid you're right about that."


	38. Chapter 38

_Chapter 38: _** LOVE IN THE AFTERNOON**

_**"****Sometimes the women have to take over… like in war." **__ • __Polly Gray_

_**An afternoon idyll…**_

Cory's team had so thoroughly sanitized the compound that the four passengers alighting from the afternoon stage had no idea their feet trod ground only that morning saturated in blood and decorated with dead men. The males slumbering in the parlor were explained as night shift ranch hands turfed out of the bunkhouse while it was being repaired. The passengers were served pie and coffee at the kitchen table and swiftly returned to their conveyance. Daisy was thankful the regular driver, garrulous old Mose Shell, was being spelled by a new man on the line who apparently found nothing unusual about a ranch staffed almost entirely by Indians. Young Doc had not yet returned and that worried her.

Cory and the four who'd ridden escort as far as Bartlett's spread returned in time for dinner. Corned beef and cabbage was a novel gastronomic experience for the natives but they tried it, liked it and emptied the pot. Every last yeast roll vanished.

"We're heading back to the Circle C now but I'm leaving Nathan and his brother-in-law, Gerald Wolfkiller, in case Slim doesn't get back this evening," Cory said. "I can spare Jimmy and Charlie a while longer, too, but—you know—soon I'm gonna need all four back at the ranch. And Calvin—when you feel he's healed enough to ride, Missus Cooper. Noki, you coming with us?"

"No… if Missus Cooper doesn't mind, I'll hang around here for a while and go back with Nathan and Jerry or maybe with Young Doc. He was planning a follow-up visit with Chelan."

Cory signaled to his band of warriors and then they were gone, swallowed up in the gloom of a heavy overcast. Shyly presenting a dressed and quartered antelope tidily bundled into its hide, Gerry praised Daisy's cooking and announced he was very much looking forward to stew for supper. Offering to help and being dismissed, Jess said he might as well go sit with Ruairí. Daisy quickly put the kibosh on that notion.

"There's nothing you can do to make it any easier for him, Jess. Let the man rest for now. And you need to stay off that foot."

"But…"

"Here's a thought… why don't you and Dave teach Calvin and Mike how to play poker?"

"Are you serious? Slim'd have a conniption!"

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with a gentlemanly game of chance," Daisy observed with a prim moue, "Unless, of course, you would rather peel potatoes or shell beans or…"

"I'll get the cards," Jess said. "C'mon, fellas."

In the kitchen nook with her back to them, Waynoka shoved knuckles in her mouth to keep from laughing at the glum expressions on male faces… just like little boys being told they couldn't go outside to play. Not that there was much they could do anyway—two with arms in slings and one on crutches. Mike didn't mind at all. He was out of school, he liked spending time with Jess, Dave was a congenial sort and Calvin treated him like an equal. What wasn't to like?

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_**Love in the afternoon…**_

As the afternoon wore on, a steady rain moved in. Waynoka persuaded Daisy into retreating to her room for a lie-down. "I'll get the stew started."

"If you don't mind," Daisy said. "I'm feeling quite weary."

No sooner had the bedroom door closed behind the ward matron than Dave and Calvin made a break for it, helping each other struggle into jackets and slickers and reinstalling their slings. Their stated intention, in consideration of Waynoka's request that they keep down the noise so that Daisy could rest, was that they'd carry on their card playing with Nate and Gerry in the barn. Mike clamored to go as well.

Waynoka threw her hands up in mock resignation. "I know when I'm outnumbered. But don't do anything you're not supposed to. If you reopen those wounds, Daisy'll have a fit."

After the three escapees had tiptoed out the door, Jess found himself alone with Waynoka in the kitchen… assailed with a sense of _déjà vu_. She looked exactly as he'd seen her that first time… _was it only two mornings ago? _So much had happened in such a short time he'd completely lost track of the days. _Was that night in the woods just a dream… or did it really happen?_ Suddenly he felt as awkward as an adolescent, unsure of the next step. Since they'd arrived there hadn't been one private moment between them. The night before she'd slept on the trundle bed in Daisy's room.

Waynoka solved his dilemma by walking over to him, taking his face in her hands and kissing him… which confused him even more because that was _his_ approach and she'd beat him to it. _Oh yeah… it really happened. _His body immediately responded in no uncertain terms.

"Is there a lock on your bedroom door?" she queried in his ear. "Stew can wait."

Was there? Wasn't there? Jess couldn't recall ever having locked the door to the room he shared with Slim. Even as his brain rushed to coordinate desire with the rapidly shrinking window of opportunity, Waynoka was nudging him in that direction.

A blissful hour later, Waynoka reluctantly unwound herself from Jess's embrace. He muttered and stirred but didn't awaken. She studied his face as she dressed. How handsome he was, with his wavy sable hair and eyelashes the envy of any woman's. Dark shadows along his jawline accentuated his sharply defined features, lending an aura of mystery. Sleep and physical release had smoothed away the stresses of his current imbroglio with his best friend. How easy it would be to fall in love with this man. She wondered how many had gone down that path before her.

Checking her appearance in the mirror over the chest of drawers, she removed the chair jammed under the latch and strolled into the parlor. It was still uninhabited. Faint, ladylike snores emanated from behind Daisy's door.

########################

_**Busted!...**_

Washing her face and hands at the kitchen sink, Waynoka stoked up the stove and launched double-time into supper preparations. _Daisy's no fool… she'll question why the stew isn't further along… and it won't take her long to figure out why._

Hours later, Daisy emerged from her lair only moments before Jess made his appearance. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?" she scolded, accepting a cup of freshly brewed coffee from Waynoka and subsiding into a kitchen chair to enjoy it. Although she'd tidied her hair and clothing, she looked still looked a bit frazzled. Too much excitement for a woman of her advanced years, Waynoka judged.

Jess hadn't done quite as thorough a job of refreshing himself. He'd combed his hair and it immediately spronged back out in errant curls. His face bore pillow prints, he needed a shave and his shirt was misbuttoned. He was trying so hard to look innocent it had the opposite effect. Daisy's gaze swung between him and Waynoka. She covered her mouth with her hand to disguise a giggle with a discreet cough.

Waynoka was going around lighting lamps when activity outside drew Jess to the front door. There was still enough daylight to make out Young Doc's buggy leading a cavalcade into the yard. Next came the Sherman buckboard with an unknown driver at the reins and Slim beside him. Behind them rolled the spring wagon with another man driving and two saddled horses tied behind.

"Bartlett boys," Jess observed.

The new arrivals didn't come in, instead mounting up and riding away. The vehicles had to be parked, their teams and Young Doc's mare unharnessed and put up. The temporary Indian hands then resumed their evening round of chores. Young Doc went straightaway to the bunkhouse. Daisy and Mike went to the front door to greet Slim as he clumped up the stairs onto the porch. Jess remained sitting at the kitchen table under Waynoka's thoughtful eyes. When Slim passed by on his way to the washroom, neither he nor Jess acknowledged each other's presence.

########################

_**Shift change…**_

Although everyone was naturally curious as to the day's doings in town, Slim wasn't forthcoming. No one asked questions or volunteered any commentary. The monastic silence prevailing at the supper table was punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery and the occasional muted query to pass the bread plate or saltshaker. Excusing himself on the pretense of fatigue, Slim turned and addressed Jess in a flat, tired monotone.

"I want this settled by the end of the week, y'hear me?"

Before the door finished closing behind his partner, Jess stood up. "I'm goin' out to spell Young Doc so he can come an' get his supper." No one contradicted him as he slipped into his sheepskin jacket and secured the crutches under his arms.

"Wait up a minute… I'm going with you," Waynoka announced, abandoning her meal as well. Lighting one of the lanterns kept ready by the front door for venturing outside after dark, she shrugged into her own coat. The rain had stopped but the footing was wet. "Be careful going down the steps."

At the bunkhouse door, Waynoka knocked once and pushed it open without waiting for an invitation. Young Doc bit back an annoyed exclamation when he saw who it was.

"Oh… it's you."

"Good evening to you, too, Doctor," Waynoka snipped. "How's the patient?"

"Sick as a dog. What do you want?"

"Jess and I will stand watch while you get your supper. Is this all the water you've got?"

"I was expecting _someone_ would get around to inquiring if I needed anything... like _water_... or _food_."

"We've all been busy. Never mind. I'll get it myself." She picked up the almost empty bucket. "Be right back."

Closing the door behind her, Young Doc shook his head at Jess. "Heaven help you if you take up with that one. She's as bossy as my sister Sally."

Waiting for her to return, Jess peered anxiously toward the blanketed figure on the bed, dimly visible in the faint illumination of a single lantern turned low. "He don't sound so good. Is he…?"

"Not now," the doctor shushed. "We'll talk later after I've eaten. In fact, why don't you stay here again tonight? Keep me company so I won't nod off... and you can tell me why you're looking like someone just shot your pet hog."

########################

_**Daisy makes an improper suggestion…**_

Much later, as the household settled down for the night, Daisy and Waynoka whispered in the kitchen while restoring clean dishes and cutlery to shelves and drawers.

"Did you see the expression on Jess's face when Slim said what he did?" Daisy asked.

"How could I not have noticed? At first I thought it was just anger… but it's more than that, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so. For all his good qualities, Jess can be rash and impulsive under pressure." Daisy twisted her hands in the already mangled apron. "If only you could've stayed with him tonight, you could've distracted him from… oh!" Her hands flew to her mouth. "I am _so _sorry… I can't believe I suggested anything so terribly improper!"

Waynoka grinned and patted the other woman on the shoulder. "No apologies needed. It's too late to worry about improprieties anyway—that horse has left the barn."

"I rather had that impression," Daisy admitted, pinking up a little. "Not that I'm shocked."

"I wanted to stay… there's another bunk going unused, after all… but they chucked me out."

"I realize you _did_ answer my earlier rather personal query but…?"

"Yes?"

"Just how… er… involved _are_ you and Jess? You do seem to be quite taken with each other."

"If you're asking are we in _love_, I wouldn't go that far. I don't believe in love at first sight… _lust_, yes… love, no. We've known each other only two days. Soon I'll be over two hundred miles away and that'll be the end of it."

"_If _he stays here…" Daisy sagely observed. "What if he doesn't? What if he decides to follow you? Would you even want him to?"

"It's not my intention to entice Jess Harper into a commitment of any sort. But if he did so decide, I'd welcome him into my home—and my bed—for as long as we found the arrangement mutually satisfactory. Sorry if you find that disconcerting."

"It is… a little. However, it's not for me to judge."

"I'm gratified to hear that. I wouldn't want to be reckoned a homewrecker who lured an innocent youth from the bosom of his loving family."

Daisy was amused by that picture, though rejoining, "I think you misunderstand my reason for asking… it's not because I'd feel you were responsible for his leaving us."

"What is it, then?"

"Jess endured a hard and lonely existence before he found his place here. At least, he _believed_ he'd found it. This unfortunate affair has shaken his faith. I suppose I want assurance my boy has someplace to go where he'll be loved and cared for."

"I wish I could give it to you, but the only one who knows Jess' intentions is Jess himself."


	39. Chapter 39

_Chapter 39:_** TRAIL'S END**

_**"****An arrow may fly through the air and leave no trace, but an  
ill thought leaves a trail like a serpent." • **__Charles Mackay_

_**SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19th…**_

Dawn ushered in a bright, sunny day—frigid, with a biting wind that targeted unprotected flesh on the humans hurrying to complete as many chores as they could before breakfast. Daisy had seen to it that they were all primed with hot coffee before facing the cold.

Slim announced at the table that he had to return to town for the arraignment of the seven prisoners. "Judge MacMillan wants to begin proceedings at ten o'clock so I'm leaving soon as the team's hitched up."

Daisy looked askance. "Surely you're not thinking of driving yourself, or riding… not with that arm."

"Jimmy'll do the honors as far as Bartlett's, then he'll come back and one of Gar's hands'll take over. I'm putting up at Mort's through Sunday week. It's unlikely Mac'll be able to schedule trial until midweek, earliest. He'll probably have to import a defense attorney from out of town. None of ours want to do it. Some or all of you will be called to appear as witnesses. I'll try to arrange for someone to come out to collect depositions."

"Do you need help packing a bag?" Daisy asked.

"No, thank you. I can manage," Slim said, standing up. His gaze swept the audience, which didn't include Young Doc or Jess. He wasn't about to comment on the absence of either man.

"While you're all here, I have a few things to say. First of all… to Jimmy, Charlie and Calvin. I can't thank you enough for your assistance these past three weeks—for looking after Daisy and Mike, taking such excellent care of our ranch, and helping us defend against those who'd do us harm."

Extracting four envelopes from a cubby in his desk, Slim walked around the table, giving each of the Indian youngsters an envelope and a firm handshake. "There's a month's pay in there, and a little extra. You've earned it."

Charlie was shaking his head. "Mister Slim, we can't accept that. Cory asked us to help out as a favor to you, for all you've done for our people."

"I know he did, but this is what I want. And you'll need it for… well, you know. Speaking of Cory, he and Nate and Gerry stayed over at Bartlett's—they bartered cattle for two mules and a spring wagon. The wagon needs some work but Cory figures it'll be ready to roll by Saturday morning. He wants you three and Nate and Miss Twelvetrees to meet him there tomorrow evening. You'll spend the night then head for home at daybreak."

"Mister Slim… who's gonna take care a chores… an' the stage?" Jimmy protested. "We the onliest ones got all our arms an' legs workin'."

"Already covered," Slim said curtly. Young Doc'd had qualms about releasing him for regular ranch duties, reminding him that broken bones didn't mend as quickly in a thirty-two year old man as in a younger one. They'd compromised, with Slim agreeing to wearing a rigid leather arm guard from wrist to elbow when working cattle. This might've presented a problem in that Slim couldn't throw a loop and Dave—still on indefinite loan—didn't know how. However, with fall roundup still some weeks away, there wasn't much cattle work to be done immediately.

"I've already hired two hands recommended by Avery Jackson. They should be here tomorrow sometime around noon so you'll have plenty of time to show 'em the ropes before you go."

Daisy bit her tongue and tried to appear neutral. _He's acting as if Jess were already gone… or dead… or never existed._

The fourth envelope went to Dave Sutton. "Same for you, Dave. I ran into your boss in town. He said I'd better not even _think_ of poaching one of his best hands. He's okay with you sticking around here until your shoulder heals and Doc says you're good to go, but then he wants you back."

Dave also tried to fend off the envelope. "I haven't earned this."

"Consider it combat pay."

Slim turned to Daisy. "If you'll get me up a shopping list, I'll get it filled and send it back with the two new men along with the buckboard."

"How will you get back home, then?"

"Stage, I imagine. And Daisy… I'd sure appreciate everything being in good order when I get home, understand? Like it was… as if nothing's happened. Jimmy… you saddle up Alamo to ride back from Bartlett's. He needs the exercise."

########################

_**Young Doc's bad news…**_

"Are you gonna go get us some breakfast or what?" Young Doc griped. "My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

Jess was peering through the curtains for the umpteenth time, waiting for the breakfast crowd to disperse. Both were hungry and jumpy from drinking coffee all night long. "Keep your shirt on. You ain't gonna starve to death in the next five minutes."

"I can't believe you're that scared of Slim."

"I ain't scared," Jess retorted on a sharp note. "Just don't feel like puttin' up with his crap this early in the mornin'."

"You two have to deal with this sooner or later. You're adults, not schoolgirls having a tiff. You should be able to sit down and talk it out."

"Easy for you to say, Doc."

Jess moved away from the window and slumped into a chair. Neither he nor Young Doc had got more than a few hours' sleep… especially after the patient went into seizure before the fever finally broke. They'd stepped outside where Young Doc glumly shared his updated prognosis: Ruairí Conor wasn't going to recover this time.

"But why?" Jess had pleaded. "He got better after the last attack."

"I can only speculate that there's a pre-existing condition," Young Doc had answered. "I've detected sounds that indicate abnormal activity of the heart."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning something is preventing his heart from properly pumping blood in and out. Current research is of the opinion it has something to do with the valves regulating blood flow, but there are any number of other factors that could affect vascular and cardiac morphology."

"Doc!"

"Sorry… What I mean—and I'm only guessing—is that in _my_ opinion these repeated malarial attacks have resulted in scarring of the heart muscle."

"So he's got a bum ticker?"

"Basically, yes. There's nothing to be done. I can administer palliative drugs, such as amyl nitrite, but..."

"How long, Doc?"

"Judging by his weak pulse and labored breathing, days or weeks at most. I'm sorry, Jess."

########################

_**Face to face with mortality…**_

As the sleepless watchers waited for daybreak, Jess found himself spilling out his entire life story, something he'd done less times than the fingers on one hand.

"Does Slim know all of this?" Young Doc asked.

"Yeah. Well… almost all. Y'ain't gonna tell on me, are ya?"

"Let me have a look at that ankle…"

"What? Now?"

"Just stick it up here under the light."

Young Doc poked and squeezed and manipulated Jess's foot, going _hmmmmnnnnn. _"Looks good. You'll be off those sticks in a few days."

"What was all that about?"

"Just reaffirming our doctor-patient relationship… which includes patient-doctor confidentiality. So, no… I can't and won't repeat anything you've told me to Slim or anyone else."

They both jumped at a knock at the door. "It's me, Mike. Can I come in? I'm freezin'!"

The boy was bundled up like one of the Esquimaux children depicted in an old geography textbook of Andy's.

Young Doc chuckled, hauling him inside along with a draft. "You can't possibly be freezing under all that."

"My nose is an' I can't wipe it!" Mike tried to demonstrate but he couldn't bend his elbow far enough to reach a sleeve with his nose.

The doctor laughed and hauled out a white handkerchief. "Here. Blow."

With his immediate need met, Mike informed them that everyone else had finished eating and Aunt Daisy wanted them to take their turns.

"Dave's comin' to sit with Ruairí, she said. And she said to tell you Slim won't be there. He's goin' off to town again and…"

The second knock was Dave. "Slim's about to leave. The boys're bringing the buckboard around. Take your time eating. Mike and I are gonna play checkers. If anything happens I'll come get you lickety-split."

########################

_**Broken…**_

Daisy and Waynoka had deferred breakfast until they could sit down in peace and quiet with Jess and Young Doc.

"What's Slim doin' in town again?" Jess mumbled through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"Judge Mac is arraigning those seven men today and Slim's the primary complainant along with the county government. When it goes to trial, some of us will be called to testify as witnesses," Daisy said. "But we won't know who yet."

"How long's he gonna stay gone?"

"He said until Sunday next week."

"Anything else I need to know about?"

"I hate to upset you this early in the day but…" Daisy went on to explain about the new men Slim had hired to replace the Indian boys.

"Sounds like he's already wrote me off, don't it?" Although Jess spoke lightly, Daisy could tell he wasn't taking that news well. She went on to repeat Slim's command to put his house in order, which very clearly meant he expected Ruairí to be gone.

When Jess continued to chow down without any further response, Daisy became even more worried. Behind that expressionless mask he had to be boiling. Slim's making hiring decisions without bothering to inform or consult with his partner was a slap in the face. Not only rude and disrespectful but a signal, undeniable, that the partnership was broken.

When both men had stuffed in as much food as they could hold, they continued sitting with a last infusion of coffee.

"We have some news, too, Daisy," Young Doc said quietly. "There's no easy way to say this. Ruairí's dying."

"Oh no! Why… how…?"

"His heart's giving out. He probably had a mild heart ailment long before contracting malaria. The disease and recurring flare-ups aggravated the condition to where his body is unable to overcome the strain."

"Is there nothing you can do?" Daisy's eyes brimmed with tears.

"Besides keeping him as comfortable as possible, no."

########################

_**SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th…**_

The new hires arrived at noon on the dot, their mounts trotting along behind the buckboard. Daisy watched from the kitchen window as the pair drove over to the corral where Charlie and Jimmy were working with Calvin observing. They jumped down and apparently introduced themselves. Detaching himself from the group, Calvin went to fetch Jess from the bunkhouse. She noticed Jess had graduated from crutches to a cane—a good sign that hopefully would contribute to a brighter outlook.

Although she couldn't hear what was being said, she could interpret Jess's gestures. After he'd shaken hands with the newcomers and talked for a few minutes, he was instructing them where to park the buckboard, see to the team and their horses, then proceed to the house. They nodded and got to work. Charlie and Jimmy were detailed to carry in parcels and boxes.

Jess came in first, blowing on his clenched fists to warm his fingers. "Dadgum it's cold out there."

"Well, what do you think? Will they do?"

Jess shrugged. "Reckon it don't matter if they suit me or not. Slim hired 'em. I didn't."

"But _would _you have hired them?" Daisy persisted.

"Maybe. Probably. They're just kids. Needed jobs an' a place to winter over. Avery found 'em sleepin' in the loft at the livery stable, gave 'em a few days work so they'd have some eatin' money. Then Slim come along, askin' if Avery knew where he could find a coupla good hands this time a year. One a them happy coincidences, you know? I asked 'em a few questions about horses an' cows an' they had the right answers. Yeah… I woulda hired 'em," Jess admitted grudgingly.

Charlie came in with the last box. "This is it, missus. We eat soon?"

"Thank you, Charlie. Yes. As soon as the new boys are done with the animals, would you show them where to wash up. And ask Jimmy to pry Mike out of the bunkhouse."

"Yes, ma'am."

########################

_**The new boys…**_

With the exception of Young Doc and Ruairí—and Slim, of course—everyone was present at the dinner table for the introduction of Audie Priestly and Elvis Mercer. At sixteen, blue-eyed baby-faced Audie was short and shy with a pleasant low-key voice. Elvis, older by a year and also blue-eyed, was Jess's height with a similarly lyric baritone voice. Both young men possessed shaggy sandy-brown hair in dire need of trimming and shabby, much-patched clothing. Despite their scruffy appearance, both were appropriately deferential to Jess and displayed excellent manners. Immediately won over, Daisy was already studying on how their wardrobes could be improved, not to mention their spare, underfed frames.

"Normally you'd be quartered in the bunkhouse, but it's temporarily unavailable. Charlie and Jimmy have been occupying the small bedroom off the hall to bedroom, but this is their last day with us so you'll be sleeping there tonight. After dinner, they'll show you around and acquaint you with the routine. This afternoon, Mister Jess and Miss Waynoka are going away on a trip, so you can bring any questions or concerns to me until Mister Sherman returns from Laramie. Any questions now?"

"No ma'am." The new boys shook their heads in unison.

"This evening we'll be having a farewell supper for Charlie, Jimmy and Calvin as they will be rejoining their people on another ranch."

"Missus Cooper?" The younger one called Audie raised his hand tentatively. "Will we be takin' our meals with the… uh… family?"

"Indeed you will. There are no cooking facilities in the bunkhouse."

Elvis raised his hand next. "Missus Cooper… this is kinda embarrassin' but… I seen that big bathtub back in the washroom? Any chance Audie an' me could get us a bath anytime soon? Our mamas'd be rollin' over in their graves if they knew how long it's been since we had one."

Daisy smiled sweetly. "Of course you may. Tonight after supper would be a good time. It'll be quiet and the only other people here will be Dave, Mike and myself. You can soak as long as you like."

########################

_**An end of life decision…**_

Well before time to attend to the afternoon stage, the Indian boys showed Audie and Elvis which horses were usually teamed up for the spring wagon. It was driven around to the side yard and backed up close to the bunkhouse.

"There's a dyin' man in there," Charlie announced sadly. "Friend of ours, bein' moved to another ranch before he kicks the bucket. Miss Daisy'll wanna go in an' clean it up for you tomorrow, fresh linens an' all that. She'll need your help."

"Don't worry about catchin' somethin'… he ain't contagious," Jimmy added at the new boys' doubtful looks. "Come on. Now we gotta catch up the coach horses for the stage."

Jess was standing next to the wagon, forking up hay from a wheelbarrow. Dried tear tracks on his face, Mike was spreading it around to create a cushion. He'd been told what was happening and why, and given time to say goodbye.

Daisy came marching across the sideyard with an armload of blankets and quilts. She, too, had been crying and was trying mightily to conceal her anger. "I'm absolutely against this entire plan, I want you to know! I don't believe he should've been told, no matter what Fred thinks. It was cruel."

"Young Doc feels a man's got the right to make his own decision. He and me and Ruairí talked about it. It was his call. He don't wanna die in that dark place. He wants to feel the sun on his face an' smell fresh air again before he goes. Can't say as I blame him."

"Still… if he'd been allowed to rest a few more days…"

"It wouldn'ta made no difference, Daisy. Doc said so. Everyone gets to the end a the trail sooner or later. He's just gettin' there sooner. Whyn't you go on in there an' make your goodbyes?" Jess urged.

Ruairí was lucid and sitting up on the edge of the bed. Daisy hugged him gently… he was so frail, all skin and bones. She couldn't help bursting into tears again.

"It's all right, Miz Daisy. I'm not in any pain and I'm not afraid of dying. Doc says I'll just go to sleep and not wake up. That's the best way to go, don't you think?"

Young Doc allowed the elderly woman a few more moments of grief before suggesting she go back into the house where it was considerably warmer. "This is what _he_ wants… it's his choice and I believe we should allow him that. Go now, let us get on with what we have to do. Someone will be with him every single minute. I'll be traveling with them as far as Lake's place. He's already decided where he wants to go and Jess and Noki are going to take him there."

########################

_**Going away…**_

Daisy watched through the kitchen window as Ruairí was brought out and helped into the wagon bed. According to the plan concocted the evening before, Jess and Waynoka would be transporting Ruairí by stages… first to the Bartlett's place for the night, where he'd be transferred to Cory's newly-refurbished wagon and moved to George Gantry's ranch for the next stopover. If he made it that far, they would press on to Cory's ranch. Beyond that, no particular destination had been identified although it was understood and accepted by everyone in the retinue—including Ruairí himself—that they were venturing as far into the mountains as they could… until the end.

Waynoka had already said goodbye and changed back to her original clothing. The dun mare, the roan gelding and Traveller were tethered to the back of the wagon. Jess came in to let Daisy and Mike know they were ready to leave. He'd packed considerably more clothing and personal items than he would have if he were planning to be gone only a few days.

"You _are_ coming back, aren't you," she asked, her heart in her throat.

"Yes, of course… just as soon as… well, when it's over."

"Slim won't be happy."

Jess took her hands in his. "I ain't studyin' on what Slim thinks right now or how he's feelin'. I made a promise to a dyin' man an' I aim to keep it. After that… well, it depends on how the dust settles whenever I get back. Right now it seems Slim's set on shuttin' me out. I'm confused, Daisy. I'm real confused. I ain't so sure anymore this is the place I'm meant to be an' I got a lot of thinkin' to do."

He kissed her on the forehead and gave her a hug. "Take care a yourself, Missus Daisy Cooper." And then he was out the door.

Daisy continued her vigil at the window, tears streaming down her face. Young Doc had already come in to say goodbye and was clambering into his buggy.

As the travelers moved out, Mike sidled up next to her and gripped her hand, burying his face in her apron. "It's all right, Aunt Daisy. You still got me."

########################

_**More goodbyes…**_

The farewell supper went well despite the salty tears that had gone into the gravy. Audie's and Elvis' eyes bugged out at the pork roast placed on the table along with mashed potatoes, home-canned string beans, sautéed onions, corn and cranberry relish, and heaps of fluffy golden biscuits. Dessert was apple pie with clotted cream.

At the end, Daisy presented each of the Indian boys with a pair of her specialty sock moccasins—knitted woolen uppers with deerskin soles—and a thick knitted scarf. "Something to remember me by as I doubt we'll ever see each other again. I hear it's even colder in… where you're moving to." Finally, the three made their farewells and went out to saddle their horses. Calvin's wound had completely scabbed over and he'd been given leave to ride.

Taking possession of Jess' bed, Mike turned in early, completely worn out with the maelstrom of emotions that had rocked his world all day. The two new boys likewise opted to retire soon after supper.

Dave would be spending one more night on the sofa. Tomorrow he would move to the single bed in the bunkhouse, which could easily accommodate his six and a half foot frame. Able to dispense with his sling, he offered to help wash up.

"I hope you don't grow any taller, Dave, or you'll have to sleep with your feet out the window," Daisy kidded him as together they closed down the kitchen for the night.

"And the next morning the neighbors will be dead… I've heard that one, too," he shot back.

"How old are you anyway?"

"Twenty-two next month and I sincerely hope I don't get any taller. It's hard finding pants long enough as it is! Good night, Miss Daisy."

"Good night, Dave," Daisy called back as she closed the door to her room and flung herself on the bed, where she cried herself to sleep.


	40. Chapter 40

_Chapter 40:_** THE MAN WHO WOULDN'T BE KING**

_**"****The monarchy is finished. It was finished a while ago,  
but they're still making the corpses dance." **__• Sue Townsend_

_**FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25th…**_

At first, without anyone knowledgeable as to which horses were usually partnered, Audie, Elvis and Dave did the best they could based on size and conformation. After much confusion, dithering over selections and false starts, they ended up with two pairs that appeared to get along and had them ready for the morning stage. Dave introduced the new hands to Mose Shell, who'd just shaken his head in confoundment.

"They ain't got 'em partnered up right but I ain't got time to change horses in mid-run," he'd complained to Daisy in the kitchen while his passengers enjoyed coffee and pie at the parlor table.

"Good heavens, Mose. It's only fifteen miles to the next station. I'm sure you'll manage."

"Yes'm. But then I get 'em back on the return run," he'd grumbled morosely.

By the end of the week, the new boys had more or less got the hang of operations and Mose had to scrape the bottom of the barrel for something to gripe about.

He pulled in that Friday morning on the outbound run with a full complement of passengers. After they'd been plied with cake and coffee and returned to their conveyance, Mose stuck his head back in the door. "Almos' forgot t'tell ya... Slim'll be along terreckly around dinnertime. Bringin' visitors."

Daisy frowned. "He wasn't supposed to be back until Sunday. What visitors? How many?"

"Four of 'em. T'weren't no seats fer 'em today on my coach so they comin' in a surrey what's rented from Jackson's livery. 'Member, while back, I tole ya 'bout them furriners on the stage what didn't wanna come in on account a it were rainin'?"

"Vaguely, yes… something about a king and a mission?"

"Yes'm… them folks. Well, they went on ta Rock Springs 'n Medicine Bow, din't find what they was lookin' fer, so come on back."

"Whatever could they want here?"

"Ain't got no idee but Slim's a-drivin' 'em."

"Thanks for the warning. I'll put the pot on… again. And see what I can do about feeding them."

"Gotta go, Miss Daisy. See ya this afternoon, Lord's willin' an' the crick don't rise." Mose cackled, leaving with a tip of his battered hat.

########################

_**High tea in the early afternoon…**_

"Oh, help!" Daisy thought as she rushed around trying to achieve a modicum of tidiness. Fortunately, there was very little out of place and she'd just swept the floor that morning. But she had so many other things to do today… bread dough to be kneaded, laundry to soak, the stove needed blacking...

Daisy sped into her room to change out of her flour-dusted skirt and blouse and dispose of her soiled apron. What did one wear to greet foreign people whose mission included the term 'king'? Were they royalty themselves? She glanced in the mirror and emitted a high-pitched _eeeek!_ Her hair looked like a colony of bats had been swooping through it. In record time she had her silver locks brushed out and pinned back up as befitted a woman of a certain age. Couldn't do much about the ringlets that insisted on escaping the pins. The natural curls that had been her pride as a young woman were no end of nuisance now. She carefully powdered her face and applied a touch of rouge to her cheeks and lips. Satisfied that her personal appearance could past muster, she returned to the kitchen and gave thought to what she could serve for dinner, which _they_ probably called luncheon or high tea or some such nonsense. No… wait… wasn't high tea in the late afternoon?

On the other hand, who did they think they were, calling without advance notice? Back east where she came from, no one would presume to drop in any old time. One left a calling card and waited to be invited to tea. Out here things were different. One was obliged to include in any meal anyone who happened to be in the home at the time, invited or not.

In any case, what was on today's menu wasn't something she could offer foreigners: pinto beans, Mexican style as Jess had told her the way his mother made it, with diced tomatoes, diced bacon, minced onion and garlic, chili powder and meat—whatever was available, cubed and browned. Mostly they had goat, sometimes game, Jess said—hardly ever beef. Daisy planned to serve it with cornpone as she had no idea how to do tortillas. She'd already started it early this morning before remembering that Jess wasn't here to enjoy it. She hoped Dave and the new hands would. Slim wasn't overly fond of spicy food… but then he wasn't supposed to be here. Finally she decided they would all just have to like it or lump it. This wasn't a restaurant with multiple choices.

When, in due course, the surrey rolled into the foreyard, Daisy Cooper was—figuratively speaking—locked and loaded and ready to face whatever this visitation might entail.

########################

_**In search of a monarch…**_

"What do you mean… he's not here? Slim hissed, red rising up his neck like alcohol in a thermometer.

Upon introduction to 'my cook-housekeeper, Missus Cooper', his guests were installed in the parlor. They had declined coffee, but wondered if there might be tea. Slim assured them Missus Cooper could provide tea in the time it took to boil the water. He and she were huddled around the corner at the back of the kitchen.

Slim was livid and Daisy thoroughly annoyed. Cook-housekeeper indeed! Which she was, of course… but it was the way he said it. She stood her ground, arms crossed over her bosom. "I mean… _he… is… not… here_," she whispered back fiercely.

"But he _has_ to be. These people have come all the way from Ireland to find him. I told them he was here. How can he not be here?"

"I don't care if the queen herself sent them. He's still not here."

"Ireland doesn't have a queen."

"Whatever. You dispensed orders when you left, Mister Sherman. Remember? You wanted the man gone and now he is. Don't be raising your voice to me. If you'll excuse me, the kettle's boiling and I have tea to make."

Slim whirled and rejoined the guests. Daisy could hear him explaining that there was a slight problem and Mister Conor wasn't on the premises at present. She had to stand on a stepstool to take down Mary Grace Sherman's silver tea service from the top of the breakfront cabinet. It hadn't been used since last Christmas and was tarnished. Oh well. Too bad. So sad. She took her time own sweet time filling the sugar bowl and creamer, refolding linen napkins from the drawer, arranging delicate porcelain cups and saucers on the tray along with tiny silver spoons and a strainer. She filled the teapot with boiling water and calculated how much loose tea to add. It would take a few minutes more to settle. And a few more before Slim ran out of patience and came back into the kitchen.

"What's keeping… oh… is it ready?"

"Yes it is. And you can carry it out to them. I have eggs to gather." With that, Daisy threw on her wrap with a dramatic flourish and marched out the kitchen front door, being sure to slam it with all her might.

########################

_**A day late and a dollar short…**_

The crocheted wrap did little to cut the wind and she made a beeline for the barn. There weren't any eggs to gather this time of day and Slim knew it. Mike would've already collected them. She figured it wouldn't take Slim too long to figure out his error and he'd come looking for her. In the meantime, she was shaking with cold.

"You shouldn't be out here without a heavy coat, Miss Daisy." Dave's sonorous voice coming from behind made her jump. He was taking off his jacket and putting it around her. "You'd better come back here with us where it's warmer."

He walked her to the back corner of the barn where a small three-legged cast-iron stove shaped like a half-globe with a grate on top was radiating heat. The floor around it had been swept clean of straw and buckets of water were at hand. Audie and Elvis were seated on boxes around it, soaping harness. Dave dragged up another box.

"Sit right here. Describe which coat's yours and I'll go get it."

She did and he was back in three minutes. "What's going on in there?" she asked.

"Can't really tell. I knocked once, opened the door, grabbed your coat and ran back out. Slim's got a face like he's been eating persimmons. Who are those people?"

"He made me so mad I ran out before I could find out. All I know is they're from Ireland and they want Ruairí."

"Again?" Dave made a face. "Well, they're a day late and a dollar short, aren't they? Are you going to tell them?"

"I haven't been asked. At the moment I'm not inclined to divulge any information to anyone… especially Mister High and Mighty Slim Sherman!"

########################

_**A conscience in crisis…**_

It wasn't too long before a much deflated 'Mister High and Mighty' came into the barn with an abject appeal. "I don't know what came over me, Daisy. I guess I was just awed by this whole business. I mean… who would have thought? Won't you please come back into the house and tell us where… whatever he is… where he can be found?"

Daisy sighed. "Apology accepted. I'll return mainly because I want to hear their story… but it doesn't alter the fact that Ruairí isn't here. They took him away yesterday and they're not coming back."

"They? They who? Where did they go? We've got to get him back."

Daisy tusselled with her conscience. _I almost feel sorry for Slim… he's on the verge of desperation. Whatever these people want with Ruairí, whatever their intentions… it would all come to naught anyway, even were I knew where he was. Dear Lord, forgive me for the truths I am about to bend._

Somehow divining Daisy's quandary, Dave stood up and protectively put his arm around the petite woman. "Ruairí passed away, Mister Slim. Doctor Whatleigh said it was a weak heart that finished him off."

"He can't be dead." Slim was dumbfounded.

"Can and is," Dave affirmed, long-faced. "Jess and them took him away for burial, same day you left."

Quickly recovering and silently blessing Dave for saving her from dishonesty, Daisy put a hand on Slim's arm. "I'm sorry for those people's disappointment… but it's too late. All we can do now is give them information."

"Jess isn't here either? Didn't he take the… uh… remains to Entenmanns?" Edward Entenmann's was Laramie's premier undertaker. "He knew I was in town... why didn't he come find me to let me know?"

Dave cut in smoothly. "As I understand it, Jess and the young lady, Miss Waynoka, intend to inter the deceased according to his wish and native custom… in some secret holy place in the mountains. They'll be gone as long as necessary, he said."

_And why do you feel Jess should have told you anything, after how you've behaved? _Daisy was thinking, promptly chiding herself for that little streak of meanness. "I'm ready to speak with your guests now."

########################

_**Nobility explained…**_

Solicitously leading Daisy to the head of the table, Slim made a show of seeing to her comfort and pouring her tea.

"I'm afraid I misrepresented Missus Cooper earlier. She's much more than cook and housekeeper to us. She's mother, grandmother and aunt to our little family, the center of our household and the guiding spirit that holds us together. She'd grown quite close to Ruairí in the short time he was with us and was devastated when… well… I'll let her explain the circumstances. But first, would you please identify yourselves again for her benefit? Then I'll explain to her your purpose in coming here."

When Daisy had come in, the two men in the party had immediately arisen and remained standing until she was seated. _Gentlemen of the old school_, she noted. Definitely not of the social class exhibited by the ruffians that had earlier come in search of their ethnic kinsman. Both the men and the two women were stylishly… and very expensively… attired, despite a light coating of dust acquired on the drive from town. All four positively exuded wealth and privilege.

The older man to Daisy's immediate left spoke first. "Seamus Murphy at your service, madam. I represent the Earl of Clancarty, Galway County."

The older woman next to him was a hatchet-faced apparition in black bombazine. But when she spoke her voice was pleasant enough. "Clara O'Neill, representing the Marquess of Sligo, County Mayo."

To Daisy's right sat an attractive younger woman in a purple traveling ensemble. "I am Aoife Byrne, house of Baron Crofton, county of Roscommon."

The last of the four was another man, considerably younger than the first one. "Patrick Sullivan, Esquire, house of Lord Inchiquin, County Clare."

In the middle-class Pennsylvania society in which Daisy had lived most of her adult life, many households employed Irish maids whose thick brogue was practically unintelligible. The seven raiders with whom Daisy had exchanged words likewise spoke a heavily-inflected dialect. These four individuals must have been educated in English boarding schools as their diction was impeccable.

From his place at the foot of the table, Slim outlined their mission. "Daisy, these folks are all members of _Societatem de Reducendo in Regnum Hiberniae Monarchem_… that's the Society for Restoration of the Irish Monarchy. They're university-trained genealogists whose research has led them across the Atlantic Ocean in search of descendants of the last recorded high king of Ireland. They've narrowed the most likely possibility to Ruairí Conor and tracked him here."

"_Our_ Ruairí?" Daisy was incredulous. "A _king?_"

"Not just _a_ king, Missus Cooper—there was a plethora of kingdoms in ancient times," Mister Murphy said, "… but the _high_ king, above all others."

"How is that even possible?" Daisy exclaimed.

"The people of our little island have been keeping records for hundreds of years before America was even discovered. The last official high king died in 1198. The Norman invasion conquered and destroyed the individual monarchies one by one until there were none. There are still descendants, to be sure—folk of noble blood—but powerless and shorn of title. Our society has been operating for nearly one hundred years in an effort to identify and catalogue these descendants. By our findings, Ruairí Conchobair Conor is indisputably the primary candidate for elevation to the post, should we prove triumphant in our endeavor to restore the monarchy."

"How can you be so sure you have the right man? With all the millions of Irish coming to America?"

########################

_**A mission explained…**_

Seamus Murphy's next words confirmed his position as leader of this expedition.

"My great-grandfather was a co-founder of this society and dedicated his life to our mission. My father and I have followed in his footsteps. We believe passionately in our cause… that restoration of the throne—as a constitutional monarchy in these modern geopolitical times—will confer prestige to our beleaguered nation and allow our voice to once again be heard with respect."

"For heaven's sake, Seamus, the lady isn't interested in politics," Patrick Sullivan interrupted. "She wants to know how we settled on this particular man. Miss Byrne can answer that in a nutshell… or two. Aoife… if you please?"

"Thank you, Patrick," the younger woman smiled prettily… at Slim. "At our central office in Galway we have stacks of logbooks of the hundreds of families we've investigated and interviewed. Of particular interest is the Conor lineage in Connemara. We had got as far as Niall Conor and his son Donal, father of Ruaidrí, when the potato famine interrupted our work. Niall passed away so we were obliged to shift our focus to the son. By 'we' I mean my father as I had not even been born at the time.

"By the time we were able to resume our investigation, Donal had emigrated to America and it took a while to pinpoint his whereabouts. Once again we were thwarted—this time by your internecine rebellion. Donal was incarcerated and his son had disappeared. In spite of his criminal history, we were prepared to put forth Donal Conor as our leading candidate for the throne, if and when we could liberate him from prison. Your government proved indifferent to our formal request and he died behind bars.

"In the decade that followed, we were unable to locate Ruairí Conor although the occasional rumor of a sighting did pop up. Then, a year ago we were advised of his verified presence in your city of San Francisco. This information came to us by way of a connection within the Fenian organization."

Patrick Sullivan spoke up. "Although to some extent we sympathize with the Fenians' objective, we have no wish to be associated with them in any way. We are pacifists, Mister Sherman. Frankly, their abhorrent activities have set back _our_ cause as a nation of God-fearing Catholic Christians."

Clara O'Neill cleared her throat, indicating she wished to speak. "I am loathe to admit that the unfortunate Fenian connection is my younger brother, Edmund. Through him and the rabble-rousers with whom he associates we were able to track Ruairí Conor to this place. No one seemed to know of him until the distasteful event of the past few weeks. It has been the talk of the town and we heard about it in the dining room of our hotel. When those seven men were arraigned, the courtroom was filled to capacity. We were there. I _know_ some of those men through my brother… not personally, of course. Miss Byrne and myself were veiled to shield our identities.

"The Fenians are convinced the man you have been harboring _is_ Ruairí Conor. On the drive from town Mister Sherman provided us with a detailed description of your guest that exactly matches what we know. We are thus very sure he is the man we have been seeking for twelve years. It is our intent to implore him to return with us to the land of his birth and assume his rightful place as our monarch."

########################

_**Disappointment and despair…**_

The time had come to disclose the terrible news. Slim and Daisy exchanged uneasy glances. Who would be the one to tell them? Knowing Slim had no idea what to say to these people, Daisy took a deep breath, gathered her courage and commanded herself to be as articulate as possible.

"Ruairí contracted malaria while working in the Philippines. This disease results in recurrent bouts of fever at lengthy intervals. There are four different types of malaria. According to our family physician, Ruairi's type comes in waves of three attacks every four days. Not quite two weeks ago, Ruairí suffered one of these bouts.

"When Slim drove into town on Saturday of the previous week, the third attack was just beginning. Doctor Whatleigh was in attendance. In his opinion, Ruairí's health was already compromised by a weakened heart. I am very sorry to inform you he did not survive."

The four society representatives gaped in stunned silence, broken by a sniffle as Aoife Byrne began crying. Clara O'Neill clasped a handkerchief to her face to stifle a sob. Patrick Sullivan and Seamus Murphy looked at each other in dumb despair. They had come so far and so close, only to lose what mattered most to them.

His face seamed with disappointment, Seamus Murphy was first to recover his composure. "May we at least view the body to… ah… confirm his identity?"

Daisy answered. "I regret that won't be possible. He was taken away by his native friends. You see, he'd spent much time among the natives and admired both their lifestyle and philosophy. It was his dying wish to be interred among them in one of their sacred burial grounds, which are secret and forbidden to white people. _Dear Lord, I don't know that for a fact. I can only hope that it's true. I believe that in Your eyes however they honor their dead is just as valid as the way we do it, and that the ground that receives their loved ones is just as consecrated as our Christian cemeteries._

########################

_**The end of a quest…**_

Unfortunately, none of the people who'd known Ruairí well were available, Daisy informed the quartet. When asked if there were any items of interest or value among his personal effects—such as a journal, the answer to that was also no. There being nothing left to discuss, Seamus Murphy tactfully declined dinner on behalf of the others and stated they would return to town forthwith. Slim offered to drive but the gentleman said that wasn't necessary, that he was capable of doing so himself.

From their station on the front porch Slim and Daisy waved them off as they rolled away.

"What a pity," Daisy said. "They were so hopeful. And what a wonderful ending that would have been. Just like a fairy tale."

"Did you… _do_ you really believe he was what they thought?" Slim's scorn was tinged with doubt.

"Why not? Wouldn't hurt anything and someday you can tell your children and grandchildren the High King of Ireland slept here."

Her sarcasm wasn't lost on Slim. "Right now what I want to know is, when do we eat and when's Jess coming back?"

"Soon… and I don't know." Daisy's snippy tone advised him that he was far back in the doghouse.


	41. Chapter 41

_Chapter 41:_** GOING AWAY**

_**"****Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away  
and going away means forgetting." **__• Peter Pan_

_**MONDAY, OCTOBER 5th…**_

Though they weren't actively at odds, Jess had maintained a cool distance from Slim ever since returning home two weeks later. He resumed his share of chores and answered when spoken to but otherwise seemed to be dwelling within a fortress of taciturnity. On four different occasions he'd taken himself to town without a word to anyone, returning in the evenings in time for supper but offering no explanations.

Slim was concerned that their working relationship would suffer, although he could find no fault with Jess' performance regarding his responsibilities. He would have liked to have known what that two-week absence signified… and those unexplained excursions to town. But he was too proud an individual to ask… or to comment when Jess removed his gear to the bunkhouse as soon as Dave went back to Gantry's.

Daisy had no qualms about inquiring, as soon as she could corner Jess privately, how things had gone with Ruairí. All he would say was that what they were expecting to happen did indeed happen during their third overnight stop at the Lake ranch.

"He went peacefully, in his sleep… just like Young Doc said. We were with him, me an' Noki. We took him up to the high country an' buried him under a rock cairn on the side of a mountain with a real nice view. He woulda approved."

When Daisy related the story of the visitors claiming to have found their king, Jess took it with a rueful grin. "I think he woulda laughed an' told 'em no thank you. But it's fittin', ain't it… him bein' in a high place now, above everyone else?"

After that Jess didn't mention Ruairí Conor again… or Waynoka. Daisy was dying to know if the fledgling romance was in limbo or had already flown, but she didn't ask. She disagreed when Slim suggested that Jess sure must be spending an inordinate amount of time in saloons lately. Her nose would've detected the reek of alcohol and tobacco smoke in his clothes… or the rank smell of cheap scent if he'd been cavorting in a cathouse.

Slim had an uneasy premonition that whatever Jess was up to didn't bode well. Roundup was scheduled to start the following week and it was beginning to appear as if he might not be able to count on Jess's participation. The only help he'd have would be the pair of teenagers.

########################

_**Unfounded concerns…**_

When Cory came that Monday to collect the refurbished buckboard, Slim communicated his worries as they harnessed up the mules Cory'd bought from Garland Bartlett. Daisy came out of the house with two plump pillowcases and joined them.

"Just a few items for the baby—layettes and receiving blankets and such."

"Why, thank you, Miss Daisy. Chelan will be thrilled. Looks like there's enough in there for a dozen babies."

"How are your preparations going?" Slim asked.

"A lot faster than expected," Cory said. "Believe it or not, Tom's already found a buyer for the ranch, cash on the barrelhead. George Gantry's taking whatever cattle aren't going to market this year. Avery donated those two wagons, and gave me a fair deal on four mules. The first wagons have already moved out."

"That's incredible news, Cory. I didn't think Young Doc could get a consortium together that quickly."

"He didn't. It was a private sale to someone who wishes to remain anonymous for the time being and is granting us whatever time we need to tie up loose ends."

"Sounds almost too good to be true," Slim said doubtfully. "No strings?"

"I know, but it's in the contract. Tom says he'll be free to reveal the name of the new owner after the first of the year, long after we're packed up and gone. We've got almost all the transportation we need. We're aiming for the end of October, after roundup."

"Whatever else you need, you'll let me know, won't you?"

"Actually… I was going to offer _you_ help. Since we're so far ahead of where I thought we'd be, I can spare some of my men."

"I can't afford to pay 'em much, now that I've got two hands on the payroll."

"That's my going-away present to you, Slim… for everything you've done for me over the years. I'll cover their wages now that I've got money from the ranch sale."

"Oh Slim… we _must_ have a farewell party," Daisy insisted.

"I agree. How about the Sunday before you leave, Cory?"

"Sounds good but it's a long drive from our place. We'd have to overnight here before we head back. My family, the Elkhorns and the Notch Ears will be the only ones left by then, if everything goes to plan."

"I'm sure we can arrange to accommodate everyone, somehow or another," Daisy said confidently.

It was only after Cory had departed that Slim realized Jess' name hadn't come up once.

########################

_**After roundup…**_

As it turned out, Slim's concerns were unfounded. Jess settled back into routine… except for his continuing reserve toward Slim—the closeness they had established over the years had evaporated. That fall's roundup was the most efficient and trouble-free in recent memory, with the Sherman crew joining the four compass-point neighbors… Bartlett, Keogh, Livingston and Gantry. The cattle were in prime shape and fetched higher than expected market prices from the buyers gathered at the railroad pens in Laramie. A celebratory barbecue was laid on at the Sherman ranch, with Daisy presiding over a bevy of wives and sweethearts providing the side dishes and desserts. If Jess's recent absence was mentioned, it was done surreptitiously.

Invitations for the going-away party for Cory Lake and his people were discreetly distributed to select individuals—close personal friends and sympathizers. The women who would be providing the refreshments huddled with Daisy to coordinate plans for the party the following Sunday. The general public knew only that the ranch had been sold and that the Indians who lived there were leaving the county, which was of little interest to them.

########################

_**SUNDAY, OCTOBER 25**__**th**__**…**_

Throughout early afternoon of the fine, sunny but crisp day invitees trickled in: the Bartlett, Whatleigh, Jackson, Livingston and Keogh families; Lychee McNutt and his newest companion; Mort Cory and his aged father, Mort Senior; George Gantry and a handful of his aged hands; and Father Sean Flynn of Our Lady of the Prairie parish and his cohort Mother Superior Moira Bartholomew of the Sisters of the Divine Illumination convent, hospital, school and orphanage. All were friends who'd long supported Cory Lake in his determination to streamline his people into the modern world.

Cory led a solemn cortège representing the two nations—Cheyenne and Shoshone—that had, against the odds, forged an alliance on a modest ranch in southeastern Wyoming. Besides himself and Chelan and their as yet unnamed infant, the celebrants included the Elkhorn, Notch Ear and Wolfkiller families and the Twelvetrees siblings.

They wore no buckskins or beaded headbands, or elaborate headdresses or feathers signifying achievements, or carried symbolic weapons. Their attire and demeanor blended in with that of the white attendees, which made it all the more difficult for the latter to understand why Cory and his people were being persecuted and hounded from their home.

Cory privately made an unusual request that at first Slim and Daisy were inclined to refuse. But in the end they had to concede that a great honor was being paid to one small boy, the memory of which in future might balance that of the terrible loss of his parents to marauding Indians.

########################

_**An honorary adoption…**_

Most of the men on both sides already knew one another from having worked together during harvest and roundups. Chelan introduced her friends to the wives who hadn't already met them. Beverages and finger foods were set out buffet-style in the parlor and people drifted in and out. The social, as it were, lasted about an hour. At sundown the bonfire was lit and Slim rang the triangle to get everyone's attention.

"If you'd all gather around the fire, Cory has some words for us."

The white audience maintained a respectful silence as Cory's people fanned out to a semicircle behind him.

"My friends, it is a sad time for us, leaving this place where we'd hoped to establish a legacy of peaceful co-existence. Instead, we are merely participants in the last days of a civilization that has proven incompatible with white settlement. My people and those of all the other native inhabitants in this land are coming to the end of our generations. Soon we will be a memory, a footnote in your decendants' history books.

"I place no blame on you personally. All of you present have been welcoming and supportive of my efforts to create a model ranch community that would prove to the territory, to the country, that we could live together in harmony… that we could move into the future, side by side, and learn from one another. It is not to be and we must accept that. I would ask your blessings on our journey to our new homes. We will not forget our Wyoming friends. We ask that you not forget us."

Cory's craggy visage broke into a grin, to show that the formal address was concluded. A ripple spread through the assemblage as Mike Williams walked around the fire and rather self-consciously took his place at Cory's side.

"With his family's permission, Michael Allen Williams has consented to be adopted into both our tribes as an honorary blood brother. Normally such a ceremony is sacred… and private. However, in these modern times we choose flexibility." Cory turned to face the boy, making signs and speaking to him in his native language. Mike beamed with delight when around his neck Cory placed a bear claw necklace from which depended three perfect eagle's flight feathers.

With one of Daisy's hatpins, Cory poked a minute hole in his thumb and one of Mike's, mingling together the two tiny drops of blood. Then he leaned over and whispered something in Mike's ear and the boy grinned.

"I have given Mike his secret name. He is now a warrior of both tribes and a symbol of hope for unity between our two nations—red and white."

Chelan came forward and knelt in front of Mike. Taking his hand she pressed into it a small fringed leather pouch. "This is your medicine pouch. You don't need it now but when you are older you should wear it around your neck and next to your heart for protection against evil spirits."

Separating from the group of whites, Young Doc made his way around the fire, carrying Ruairí's bighorn bow and the quiver of arrows. Mike's eyes grew even wider. "Fox-on-Fire wanted you to have this. It's too much for your size right now, but you'll soon grow big and strong enough to manage it and Slim or Jess will teach you. In the meantime it should be kept somewhere safe."

########################

_**An about-face apology…**_

It was Slim's turn to speechify. "I'd like to say a few words in remembrance of a stranger who came into our lives some weeks ago. His name was Ruairí Conor, also known as Fox-on-Fire by his Cheyenne and Shoshone friends. He was a man who'd done some very bad things in the past but had never been brought to justice. When I found out who he was, what he was… rather, what he'd _been_… that's all I could think about—that he had to pay for his crimes.

"I was brought up to live by the rules and I guess I've always expected everyone else to do the same. I never really stopped to consider that another other man might've been brought up by _different_ rules, that maybe he didn't see black and white, right and wrong the same way I did. That maybe the 'sins' of one father are the legitimate ideals of another. Anyway, I learned a lot from him. I just wished I'd learned it soon enough to tell him that."

While the audience had been paying attention to Slim, half of them mystified because it was the first they'd heard of this person, Jess had slipped into the bunkhouse unnoticed, collected some items and made his way to the barn.

A rash of murmuring broke out in the crowd.

The party began to break up then. The townfolk would be traveling back to Laramie in procession and the ranchers returning to their homes in different directions. The Bartlett's would be hosting Cory's people as their sprawling ranchhouse of many bedrooms could accommodate the womenfolk while the men could avail themselves of the bunkhouse.

Daisy stood by the front door, bidding goodnights as guests departed. As the last buggy left the yard, she realized that Waynoka had hung back and was standing at a corner of the corral near the cottonwood tree, holding the reins to her mount. Slim and Jess were standing by the corral between the trough and the barn door… near that spotted horse, saddled up and loaded for the long haul.

They were talking, but not arguing. Slim was hunched over in a despairing posture. Suddenly she understood that earlier—when Jess had suddenly enveloped her in a fierce hug, kissing her on the forehead and telling her he loved her—what he'd been telling her was goodbye. Quietly returning to the parlor, she subsided into her rocker and let the tears come.

########################

_**Left behind…**_

"I thought we'd got past this, Jess." The hitch in Slim's voice threatened to betray his manly reserve. "Is there nothing I can say or do to change your mind?"

"Understand, it ain't just you, Slim." Jess had been staring at the ground, avoiding meeting the other's eyes. Now he raised his head, blinking. "Got some things need takin' care of, is all. Need time away from here to think things over. Decide what I'm gonna do with the rest a my life."

"Your life is here, with us. Nothing's gonna change that unless… unless you're thinking of cashing out your share of the ranch."

"I'd never do that to you an' Andy."

Slim fought to keep his desperation from leaking out. "What about the station contract? How'm I gonna manage on my own?"

"Did it before me. You can do it again."

"Shouldn't we have talked this over first?" Slim entreated.

"Don't think we coulda."

"You know I was out of my head or I never would've said those things..."

"I know."

"Will you at least swear to me you're coming back?"

"I'll be back. Just don't know when, exactly. Tell Mike I said so long, will ya? I want him to have Traveller. He's gettin' too long in the tooth to be goin' where I'm goin'." Jess stuck out a black-gloved hand. "Be seein' ya, pard."

Slim shook hands though he felt as though his gut was being ripped out.

With that, Jess Harper swung into the saddle and rode away into the darkness, Waynoka at his side.


	42. Chapter 42

_Chapter 42:_** EPILOGUE**

"_**Pride goeth before a fall." • **__Proverbs 16:18, abridged_

After the initial shock of Jess' desertion transitioned to numbness, Slim and Daisy made the necessary adjustments to life without him. Mike, not so much… though he'd soon learned not to ask questions because it made Aunt Daisy sad. She cried a lot when she thought no one was looking. Slim was sad, too. He didn't cry, of course, 'cause he was a grown man. He just didn't laugh much anymore.

The Laramie Board of Education acquired two new teachers, both eager and idealistic young men. Mike was in the fifth grade at Laramie Primary as Slim and Aunt Daisy had decided he needed to go to real school instead of being tutored at home. They had taken him to Doctor Jaimie McPheeters' home to meet his family and to see if he'd like to stay there during the week. Doctor Jaimie and Miss Annie had five children—three boys and two girls… Dusty, Buck, Linc, Jenny and Sarah.

Dusty (whose real name was Sardius after his grandpa) was one week older than Mike and they became instant best friends. The McPheeters had a great big three-story house with so many bedrooms each kid could have had his own, but Miss Annie said for now the younger ones were going to have to share—the girls in one, Buck and Linc in another. Being the oldest, Dusty had his own room and Mike could have had his own, but the boys asked if they could share. Miss Annie said in that case they could move up to the top floor, away from the little kids, if they promised not to get into any mischief. They could use one of the spare rooms to set up their toy soldiers and battlefields, or build forts out of old furniture, left behind by the previous occupants.

On Friday evenings, Mike made the twelve-mile journey home accompanied by Tommy Bartlett, whose folks owned the ranch next to Sherman's. Tommy'd been Andy Sherman's best friend until Andy'd gone away to school. A likeable young man but not overly endowed with intelligence, Tommy'd dropped out of school. Parents Garland and Marilyn, recognizing that their beloved eldest lacked the acumen to ever take over the ranch, had agreed that the boy needed a useful vocational skill. Thus, Tommy was now an apprentice butcher at DeNamur's Fine Meats. After working his half-day shift on Friday and filling his mother's shopping list from the previous weekend, he'd collect Mike—and very often Dusty—and off they'd go in the buckboard. On Sunday evenings they'd head back to town.

Although he couldn't fully appreciate it, Mike had the advantages of both worlds. During the week he lived in a comfortable modern home in the midst of a joyous, loving family. He had a close personal friend his own age—practically like a brother—and acquired others among the town kids. He very much liked school and his teacher and was doing well, scholastically. At the weekend he got to be with his own family—the people he loved—and had the freedom of the great outdoors. With restrictions, of course. Had to play within hailing distance of the calling triangle and, if on horseback, either in the big pasture or on the road within sight of the house.

On his first visit, Dusty was envious of Mike's private, personal mount… a full-sized ride, not a pony. On his second, he was delighted to be presented with his own matching horse. Slim explained that his dad had bought it for him but it would live at the ranch. What the boys didn't need to know was that in exchange for board and feed, the doctor was compensating Tommy for the twice-weekly ten-mile round trip between the Bartlett and Sherman ranch houses. Slim also was supplementing Tommy's income with a small stipend for the weekend town-ranch shuttle service.

The only exception to the roaming rules was whenever Slim or one of the hired hands was available for hunting or fishing expeditions, which depended on weather conditions. The boys romped merrily through the first snowfall of the season, which began on a Friday afternoon. By Sunday it was patently obvious they weren't going to be returning to town that evening… possibly not until the end of the week. Daisy fretted over how to keep two house-bound boys entertained, but she needn't have worried. Elvis and Audie, not so long out of short pants themselves, proved generous with their free time, happily joining in on games and keeping the boys occupied.

With Jess gone, Slim asked George Gantry if he could hire on Dave Sutton full time—if Dave were amenable, which he was. Gantry had no problem with that.

Cory Lake's intended migration proved unattainable that season. Heavy snows prevented the wagons from venturing beyond the Wind River reservation. They would have to wait until spring to resume their trek. Fortunately the resident Shoshone were welcoming of their kinsmen plus the Cheyenne in-laws and quickly found a solution to their overwinter housing needs. Just outside the reservation boundaries stood Fort Augur, a military installation that had been abandoned some years before. Its buildings were still in good repair and easily accommodated Cory's host. Acknowledging that the newcomers were under his care although technically residing outside the boundaries of the reservation, the Bureau of Indian Affairs agent surreptitiously added them to the roster of government benefits recipients. Beef, staple foods, blankets, education and medical care were provided accordingly.

Waynoka Twelvetrees moved into the residence assigned to her as headmistress of the newly constructed school. Her brother Daniel occupied the one attached to the clinic he would be serving. Jess stayed with Waynoka until mid-November, with understanding that he'd be moving on—he had plans and an itinerary. He promised to write occasionally.

At the end of the month, Jess packed up, leaving Noki the spotted horse they'd finally given a name—Roree, and made his way to the nearest railroad stop at Shoshoni.

As November drew to a close, life on the Sherman ranch gradually settled into the new normal, in which Jess' name was rarely mentioned. Every day when the stage arrived and Mose came in for his coffee and pie, he'd hand over the mail with a single negative nod to Daisy… or Slim if he happened to be standing there. They didn't bother to ask. No word from Jess.

Not a day went by that Slim didn't think about him, wonder how he was getting along, wish he could erase all the misery his hard-headed and heavy-handed righteousness had caused. As much as he would have liked, he couldn't blame all of it on his concussion. At first he'd clung to a shred of hope that Jess's parting words were sincere… that he _would_ be back. And he'd assumed that meant _days_… or a few _weeks_ at most. But now it was beginning to look like _months… _or_ never._

Every now and then, to compound his contrition, Slim would catch Daisy observing him with a reproof that she hastily tried to hide. Furthermore, he hadn't yet admitted in his letters to Andy that Jess had gone. Sometimes Slim tried to convince himself that _he_ was the victim here… that Jess should have known he didn't have to leave. But he couldn't even work up a halfway decent injured-party resentment.

The loss of his best friend weighed heavily on Slim Sherman's heart and soul, and he wondered if he'd ever see him again.

############ **(NOT QUITE) THE END** ############

"_**Home is the place you go, when you have to go there,  
they have to take you in." • **__Robert Frost_

_**AWWWW… **__Ya'll didn't __really__ believe I was gonna leave you twistin' in the wind, didja? __Of course__ Jess come home—eventually. He always did, no matter how divisive the argument what split 'em apart. Some of you might of took issue with what—on the surface—seems like some awful churlish, not mention childish, behavior on his part… runnin' off like that an' leavin' everyone dear to 'im confused an' forlorn. Some of you might be thinkin', well… Slim got what was comin' to 'im (even if the rest a the family didn't an' he did have a valid medical excuse for his behavior—some of it, anyways)._

_Truth a that matter is, neither was completely right an' neither was entirely wrong. Like Jebediah Jones said, _"Every man sees the world though his own knothole."_ A man's personal convictions can be a powerful force driving his actions. Weren't no different then than it is now. Take, for example, how friendships has been ruint an' families divided just on account of who's warmin' the chair behind the desk in the Oval Office. (But we ain't goin' there.)_

_Others of you might be wonderin' (just like Slim!) where Jess went an' what he got up to in the months he were gone from the ranch. An' that, my friends, is a story for another time. • __**Nonie**_

############ **THE (REAL) END** ############

**Many, many, many thanks to ****Betas Extraordinaire RK4SL and Westfalen  
****and my Laramie Pal and Spirit Guide Sally Bahnsen  
****and to the rightful owners of Laramie… thanks for letting me play in your sandpile.  
****(I promise to put all the action figures back in the toy box when I'm done!)**

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

**Irish High King: **The last undisputed High King of Ireland was **Ruaidrí ****mac Tairrdelbach ****Ua Conchobair** (1116-1198). Although he sired numerous progeny, his line faded into obscurity two generations later. _Rory O'Conor_ is the Anglicized version of _Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair_. The name _Ruaidrí_ (one variation of many including _Ruairí_) means 'red king" and is held to be derived from the Gaelic _ruadh_ (red-haired or ruddy) plus _rígh_ (king). Contemporary family surnames include _O'Connor, Connor,__ Connors and Conor._

**Irish Monarchists: ** There are no officially acknowledged claimants to the throne though many have tried in the past 800+ years. Remnants of Irish nobility are recognized in social and genealogy circles, if not politically or legally. To this day there exist organizations dedicated to restoring the Irish monarchy.

**Irish Freedom Fighters: ** The existence of organizations (political and otherwise) dedicated to overthrowing British rule in Ireland is well-documented and ongoing in modern times. These have ranged from peaceful grass-roots movements to outright terrorism, not only in Ireland itself but in Great Britain and the United States on behalf of Irish unification. The existence of an Irish anarchist society or community in or near Brunswick, Maine in the latter 1800s is solely my creation. Military involvement with or operations within Bowdoin College during the Civil War is strictly imaginary.

**Malaria: ** In the fourth century BC the Greek physician Hippocrates was the first to quantify periodic fevers as tertian, quartan, subtertian and quotidian. The term 'malaria' came into common usage in the early 1800s. Discovery of parasitic infestation and proposal as a vector occurred in 1880. Positive identification of mosquitoes as the carrier of the disease did not happen until 1898. The description of a recurrent malarial episode is based in part on personal observation of a family member.

**Wind River: ** The Wind River Indian Reservation was created in 1868 in west central Wyoming. Initially subsidized by the federal government in 1884, St. Stephens Indian Mission was established by Jesuit priests. The mission's co-educational Indian School was established in 1888. The fictional Catholic mission of St. Jude (patron saint of lost causes) and its attendant school predate the creation of the actual reservation by some fifteen years.

**Spirit horses:** White horses with liberal black spots have been depicted in pre-Christian era art of the Chinese, Persian, Grecian and Roman empires. The earliest known renderings of 'leopard spot' horses—Paleolithic cave paintings, dated at approximately 23,000BC—appear in the Pech Merle Caves of France, discovered in 1922. At the time experts couldn't agree if these represented real or imaginary animals... and it was "assumed that the spots had a shamanistic or spiritual significance." _(Wikipedia)_

**Hereford cattle:** This ubiquitous, red-coated, white-faced breed did not actually appear in Wyoming until 1883, when a foundation herd of 146 registered animals was imported from England by the first of the territory's 'cattle barons'—Scotland-born Alexander Hamilton Swan. The 'Canby Cattle Company' is based on Swan's real-life Wyoming Hereford Ranch, headquartered at Crow Creek, east of Cheyenne.


End file.
